Rescue
by Jabyar
Summary: "How had it come to be that she, a person normally so strong and independent, had been rendered so helpless as to lack control over her own ability to die?" Takes place in 2005. WARNING: Very graphic story; please heed the M rating.
1. Cold

She was so cold. It was one of the few things her brain could register, as she slowly regained consciousness. The cold had seeped into her bones, and small muscle spasms riddled her body. They had left her so bare – her shoulders, her stomach, her back, her chest – all were exposed to the dewy fogginess of the September mountain dawn. And, as if the misery of being too helpless to shield vulnerable body parts from the elements was not bad enough, the uncontrollable convulsions in her stomach associated with the intense shivering exacerbated the pain she was already feeling in what had to be numerous fractured ribs.

And oh, the pain. It wasn't just in her ribs; it was all over. The pain was excruciating. It permeated her body, her person; it overwhelmed her. In some spots, like in her chest, her arm and her stomach, the pain came in the form of acute, pointed jabs, reminiscent of the original, sharp pain she had had to endure when that baseball bat kept coming down on her – over, and over again. And in other parts – her head, her eyes, and, lower, much lower down – in a place she didn't want to acknowledge at this time – the pain was a more even, continuous agony.

She sucked in a wet breath through her nose, and remembered the gag, still firmly in place. She only vaguely recalled being forced to take that in. The hand-towel-sized cloth ruthlessly shoved into her mouth, the sickening taste – like dishwater and sweat – and those rough hands placing the filthy bandana over it and tying it behind her head. When the cloth had first brushed against the back of her throat, she had panicked and gagged, nearly vomiting. And then those first desperate, ragged breaths through her nose, as she reacted to being forced to breathe with such limited capacity, just when the assault was becoming severe enough that she required large, additional gulps of air just to sustain herself.

She pushed the memory away and tried to think straight, to take stock of her situation: She was lying on her right side, her weight resting painfully on her fractured arm, which one of them had deliberately broken – it had served no strategic purpose in subduing her – and she was curled in a loose ball, her knees bent towards her chest. Her cheek scraped against the soil, a small twig further irritating her face. It was the same position she'd been in for hours. Her wrists were pulled painfully behind her back, tied unnecessarily tightly with that awful thin wire. She could not feel her hands; the circulation had long ago been cut off. She was mildly aware of being wet and sticky around most parts of her body. Her back felt the wettest, and it stung, as though a hive of bees were feasting on it. It was also wet between her legs, but her sweatpants, which clung loosely to her hips, were absorbing it. She couldn't remember how they'd gotten back on.

_Back on._

She forced herself not to focus on it, and instead to feel thankful to have any scrap of clothing at all. For it was the shivering that was really killing her.

She had to fight a bout of nausea as she opened her eyes to blurriness. A bad sign, she knew – probably meant a concussion. Under no circumstances could she vomit into her gag. Her vision cleared momentarily, and she was briefly lucid enough to appreciate that it was, in fact, morning. But the foggy dampness and eerie quiet suggested it couldn't be much later than 5 a.m.

_At least two hours before they might start looking for you._

This insight alone – this seemingly minor tidbit of information, was enough to tip the balance in her head – the decision to fight or to die. It was a fact: she simply could not last two more hours.

And yet, lying here bound and gagged and so badly beaten it hurt to shiver, she was overcome with despair: how had it come to be that she, a person normally so strong and independent, had been rendered so helpless as to lack control over her own ability to die?

_You have to hold on for two more hours._

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

He really had to pee. His brain had been warning him for some time to take care of this, or else. That his last dream had had something to do with emptying his bladder was his final tip-off that the situation was getting urgent. It was light out, but not much later than dawn. He sat up in bed, determined to make this quick – it was freezing! Quietly, for he didn't want to wake his dad, who looked like he was getting the best sleep he'd gotten in weeks – on a thin mat over hard, uneven ground – go figure – he pulled on his fleece and hiking boots and stood up.

It occurred to him that she must have had the same idea – for her half of the makeshift bed was empty. He really hoped he didn't run into her. He wasn't sure which was a potentially more embarrassing idea – her catching him, or him catching her. Luckily, he had the option of not having to go too deeply into the woods to do his business. And if he did it right over the edge of the little cliff, he could keep an eye out for her. Boy, he chuckled to himself – he saw what she'd meant yesterday when she'd made the comment – men really did have it easier in this department.

He zipped up, and raced back to the sleeping bag, the cold penetrating even the flannel of his double layer of long underwear. His father was still sound asleep.

He was glad for his dad. It had become a regular occurrence to wake up for school just as his dad was coming home from an all-nighter. He felt badly that his dad always seemed so tired. It was, in fact, what had ultimately driven his mom away, these late nights, the constant fatigue when he actually was home.

He curled up under the cover of the still-warm sleeping bag. So comfy… So warm… It was heavenly, this sleeping bag. He closed his eyes, reveling in the luxury of his covers, his mind drifting to yesterday, when the three of them had triumphantly reached this spot, and gazed at the view from the ridge. They had taken pictures. They had swum in the stream.

He sighed with contentment. How he was enjoying this trip. No sisters. Just him and his dad, and the woman who'd come to be more than his dad's partner. He knew his dad had been torn between wanting to be with her, and feeling like he was letting down his son in inviting a third person along on the trip that had been supposed to be a father-son thing. But his dad sensed that he wouldn't mind, and so asked his permission first, which he gave, careful not to sound too enthusiastic.

The truth was, he more than didn't mind. Although he would admit this to no one, he adored her. To his friends, she was his dad's super-hot partner. She was merely someone who, he agreed with as much conviction as he could muster in front of his macho, mid-pubescent friends, ought to be on the cover of a swimsuit calendar. And to his sisters, and especially to his twin sister, who worshipped her in a twelve-year-old-girl kind of way, she was just his dad's partner; someone about whom he was officially indifferent – she was neither nice nor mean, pretty nor ugly, and jeez, his sister ought to get a grip! But inside his head, in a place he shared with no one, he fantasized. And it was more than just her looks – granted, that was a huge part of it, but something about her – she was tough and sweet and confident and goofy and exciting and soft all at the same time. Just being in her presence thrilled him.

He began to drift off, a pleasant dream – something about her – beginning to overtake him. Suddenly, he jerked awake. A second passed, and he realized it hadn't been an external stimulus. He had this odd, funny feeling that something was wrong. He lay there, uncertain as to why his subconscious was so bothered. He mentally checked off a list of things that could be wrong: The campfire was burning but contained; there were no wild animals about; it was not starting to rain; there had been no strange sounds; his dad was still asleep.

And then it hit him.

_She should've been back by now._

He sat up with a start. Hadn't he been back from his foray to the edge for at least ten minutes? He knew women took longer than men, but would she truly linger in a forest in the middle of the night?

_You're being ridiculous. She's probably just taking a while. Who knows what women have to do when they go._

He lay back down, relieved that he had found a logical explanation. And yet, it didn't really make sense. It wasn't like she needed to fix her makeup – wasn't that why women usually took so long? He had no idea.

_You should get up and look for her._

His father would kill him if he wandered off into the woods alone.

And yet… And yet…What if…

Should he wake his dad? He pondered this solution for a moment. Would his dad be upset? Would he angrily yell out what had to be the obvious explanation for her absence?

_He looks so peaceful. He never sleeps this well._

No, he really couldn't do that to his dad. Besides, what could happen to him, as long as he stayed near the vicinity of the campsite? It was light out now, so he knew he wouldn't get lost. If he spotted her, he'd discreetly come back to his sleeping bag. And if his dad woke up, he'd say he'd gone to pee.

As he was getting up once again, determined to carry out this mission, the answer dawned on him. They had had a fight, and she'd left to go home. This had to be it. He lay back down, depressed. The adventure was over. The trip was over. His dad would be in a bad mood. And he wouldn't get to be with her. Walk with her. Talk to her.

He stared at the gray sky from his position on his back, and was again overcome by doubt. Did it really make sense? Did adults do this? Storm off in the middle of the night? He had certainly seen it in the movies. But this was a campsite – it was different – they were in the middle of the woods. He knew she was a cop, but he'd seen how protective his dad was – surely he wouldn't let her leave by herself no matter how mad he was. And in any case, hadn't they seemed happier than ever when they'd gone to sleep? Wouldn't he have heard them if they were fighting? When his mom and dad had fought, he could hear them from his bedroom upstairs. Was a fight really the only explanation?

He had a thought: Maybe she was under the covers after all and had been there the whole time. Maybe she was cuddled up with his dad and he just hadn't looked properly. He sat up again, and stared intently at his father's sleeping form, _willing_ her to be there. He blinked several times. He wasn't hallucinating. She simply wasn't there.


	2. Scared

He had followed the path for nearly ten minutes, down the little hill, into a woodier area. There were only two possible paths leading from the campsite; he'd chosen the one that led into the denser patch, figuring if she'd wanted privacy, that's the one she'd select. He glanced at his watch, the digital waterproof one she'd given him for his birthday. In the nine minutes and fifteen seconds he'd been walking, he had decided that she must have twisted an ankle, or hurt a leg. He was surprised that she had ventured so far away, but thought it possible she had turned the wrong way after her bathroom break, or otherwise had just wanted to explore. He had arbitrarily decided that he should turn back after exactly ten minutes, for his dad could wake up at any time, and if he hadn't found her within ten minutes, he'd obviously screwed up anyway. He had forty-five seconds to go. He charged ahead.

With eight seconds left in his schedule, he noted the sharp bend in the path, and decided to break his own rule and go slightly further. He'd turn around as soon as he investigated the concentrated, thick patch of trees just beyond.

He cleared the bend, his eyes scanning the vicinity.

_There. _

A bit of movement, out of the corner of his eye. Behind the tree, about ten yards off the beaten track. A bare foot.

He sprinted towards it.

During the handful of his father's work-related phone calls on which he'd had the temerity to eavesdrop, he had overheard vivid descriptions of how various victims had been found – of the viciousness, the violence. But nothing could have prepared him for this sight.

She was lying there in a ball, moaning and trembling. Her eyes were clenched shut, and her naked stomach was convulsing uncontrollably, her bruised chest area, covered scantily by a torn bra, heaving with it. The bra strap clung tightly to her savagely beaten back, which had scarcely a square inch of skin remaining, some blood still unclotted and streaking down in several jagged lines, an open invitation to countless insects and microbes.

He suddenly had a mental image of the woman giving birth in that video that had been part of sex-ed class. She had screamed and pleaded and thrashed, clutching her belly, yelling bloody murder. He had been transfixed by the video – he couldn't process that his own mother might have ever experienced anything resembling this sort of agony. He'd learned in that class that labor was the worst pain a person could experience, and seeing that video, he'd completely believed it. But at this moment, witnessing her lying here like this, he knew he'd been dead wrong.

He tentatively approached her form, taking in her state of semi-nudity. He had been fantasizing about her for so long, and yet, in a heartbeat, he would have traded every last one of those reveries to not have to see her like this now. For in the millisecond it had taken for his eyes to take in this sight, he had come to learn that not all nudity was arousing. Sometimes, in fact, it was heartbreaking. There was nothing sexual, for example, about the tops of her breasts – thankfully, at least partially covered by what was once a lacy black bra – bleeding and bruised. And the cleavage, damp with perspiration and blood, made more ample by her painful position on her side, was hardly the tantalizing, forbidden fruit that it had been just yesterday, when she'd donned a bikini top to go wading in the stream, and he'd nearly wet his shorts.

He was disgusted with himself for ever having had those thoughts.

_At least she's wearing pants._

He hesitated. He was not sure what to actually _do_. Should he run back to his dad for help? Should he try to help her himself? Should he touch her? Talk to her? What was the protocol? He froze for a second, panicked. He should at least take the gag out, he reasoned. Maybe she could then tell him what to do.

Gingerly, he got onto his knees in back of her, and reached behind her head to untie the dirty bandana. Her hair, which was just long enough to normally cover the back of her neck, was clumped together in several sticky locks, exposing it. As he worked to undo the double knot, his fingers briefly and barely grazed her skin, which was shockingly cold to the touch. She flinched at the contact, letting out a panicked whimper through her gag. Abruptly, he pulled away, distressed that he might have hurt her.

_Say something to her! Tell her it's ok! Tell her you're sorry!_

He had sensed as soon as he arrived that he should be talking to her throughout this procedure, but he didn't know what to say. Should he tell her she was going to be okay? In the movies, they always said stuff like, Hang on! You're gonna be okay! But what if she _wasn't _going to be okay? Was it okay to lie to her?

_She might be scared of you._

He recoiled, profoundly upset by this prospect – that she, his favorite person, a cop, no less, could be reduced to being afraid of him – him! – a scrawny, bookish twelve-year-old who was too timid to ask Phoebe Wimpmueller to sit next to him at lunch. On the other hand, he considered, she had no reason not to be scared of him; he hadn't identified himself, after all, and she was certainly in no state to figure it out on her own. And this much he'd learned from being the son of an SVU detective – victims were scared of everything.

He sat back on his heels, unsure how to proceed. He had an overwhelming urge to flee to his dad, to let him take over. This was too much for him. He didn't know what he was doing. His eyes again took in the full sight of her, the surrealism of seeing her like this. And then they fell upon her face – the beautiful, angelic features twisted into an expression of unmitigated suffering.

And just like that, his decision was made: if he did nothing else for her, he would free her of the gag. He owed it to her to summon enough courage to complete this one small act of mercy.

Taking a deep breath, he poised his fingers to continue. Her right cheek was scraping back and forth along the ground, in tempo with her pain, and he had to move in sync with her so as not to lose his grip on the knot. She no longer appeared to fear him; her movements seemed purely to be involuntary reactions to her physical pain, rather than emotional responses to being touched. A fact for which he was thankful – for he still couldn't bring himself to utter a word to her.

Slowly, because he wasn't sure what kind of touching might hurt her, and because he'd learned his lesson about scaring her, he pulled the bandana away, only to expose the large cloth protruding from her mouth, which he expected her to now spit out. When she didn't, he realized that she was too weak even for this slight motion, and he extended a shaky hand towards her face to gently remove it. It was soaked in blood.

Her breaths now came in hyperventilated gulps, as her body registered a new source of air. The moans turned into louder, more enunciated grunts. He noticed that she was sweating, particularly around her forehead, near the hairline, even though her skin was so, so cold.

Presently, she opened her eyes, squinting at him, her gaze glassy and unfocused. He wasn't sure if she even recognized him. She started to speak, her voice weak and desperate, a voice he didn't recognize as belonging to the assertive woman he'd come to worship.

"D-Dickie… " A pause, as she sucked in another wheezy breath, gathering just enough strength to whisper two more tiny words, "help me… _please…_"

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The gag was gone. Someone had removed it. Was she dreaming again? No, it really was gone. She tried to move, but was thoroughly winded when the weight of her torso further crushed what remained of the bone in her upper arm. She gasped, trying to recover.

When she was sure she had endured the worst of it, she took in several more breaths, trying to reassess.

She was still shivering.

She was still bound.

She was still helpless.

She let out a huff of pain, grateful for the small gift of unhindered breathing. Had she hallucinated that someone had been here? She contemplated this. It was possible; she'd been drifting in and out of consciousness for a number of hours now.

But no, it had to have been real. The key lay in the gag, or lack thereof. She clung to this small fact. If the gag was gone, it meant her situation had changed. She wasn't sure how, but she knew one thing: there was hope.

She tried to think, to search her mind for any fragment of a memory of that awful rag having been pulled out. Had she even been awake for it? Who had been here?

She struggled to gain some coherence to her thoughts.

Footsteps approaching. Fingers on the back of the neck. He was touching her.

She started at the recollection. But wait – these had been gentle, soft hands, pulling out the rag. Hands that weren't going to hurt her. A child's.

She had begged the child for help.

Had the child responded? Had he said anything? Why had he left her?

All at once, the memory was upon her. A child. Dickie. Yes – it had been Dickie! And if Dickie had left her, it could only be because he was getting his father.

She exhaled, the pain bearable for the first time in hours. Dickie's father would help her.


	3. Alone

It was his favorite dream. The one where they were about to make love. He'd been having it frequently, recently, although the locations tended to vary – the courtroom, his house, her apartment, at the beach, on their desks… This time, they were in the interrogation room. He was telling her that there was no way anyone was watching through the two-way glass, even though he had no way of knowing this. And she was believing him.

He had had lots of dreams tonight, but this one was by far the best. There had been a less pleasant one earlier – one of those garden-variety ones suffered by all SVU detectives – the one where his brain cross-wired his family or his partner with one of his cases. Those were always doosies. It had been particularly vivid; in fact, he had even briefly awoken, swearing he'd heard a real scream. But this current one, oh, this one – it was making up for everything.

Things were getting steamier. He had convinced her, somehow, ridiculously, that since it was Tuesday _(Tuesday?) _Munch and Fin would not be at work, and that they therefore had the whole station to themselves. Even in the dream, he could feel himself questioning the absurdity of his own logic, and not caring a whit.

He was getting to it now; they had made it on top of the conference table, clothes were coming off, and…. Behold! Someone was behind the glass! The person was pounding on it, screaming for him! He ignored it, his dreambrain telling him it must be Cragen, but it was ok if he watched; somehow this would not result in their losing their jobs.

_Dad!_

Dad? So it wasn't Cragen after all? But hold on – what the heck was his son doing here at the station, let alone behind the glass? And holy shit – his son was watching him about to make love to his partner!

_Dad, wake up!_

Something about the urgency in that voice. His eyes snapped open. His son running towards him, flushed. The dream faded instantly. He was fully awake.

"What? What's wrong? What happened?"

"You have to come! Now! You have to come!"

"What? Where? What're you talking about? Jesus, what time is it?"

"Just come! Please."

He sat up. His son was standing over him. He'd been running for a while, it seemed; he was sweaty and panting. He noticed that her half of the mat was vacant, and he was amazed that he had slept so soundly as to not have been aware of her departure.

"Where's Olivia?" he asked groggily, failing to contract his son's enthusiasm for whatever it was that had caught his attention. It was too damn early.

Dickie looked at him, visibly frustrated. "Dad, please. Just listen to me. You have to come with me. Now."

He looked at his son, so agitated, so exasperated by his father's sluggishness. For crying out loud, he'd just woken up! Dickie was tugging on his arm. He hadn't done that since he'd been a toddler, wanting his daddy to play hide and seek with him. What the hell was the matter?

"Dickie. Calm down. Just tell me what's going on. And does this have to do with Olivia? Are you two playing some kind of trick on me? Because if you are, I'm gonna be really annoyed. Y'know, I haven't slept like this since – "

His son cut him off, shaking his head vociferously. "It's not a trick, dad, I swear! You have to come. Please, let's go!"

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

They were charging like bandits down the path. He'd been able to ascertain from his son that there was, indeed, a serious problem, and that somehow it involved Olivia. Beyond this, Dickie refused to divulge anything.

That she might have been seriously hurt had crossed his mind, but just as quickly he had forced himself to uncross it. He had promised her – promised her – that for these three days, he would stop being an SVU detective, and just be a normal, relaxed guy. He would stop assuming the worst in every situation.

"Elliot," she'd laughed, when that scruffy-looking character with the bad teeth at the picnic stop had seemed mildly put-out when she'd revealed she was a cop, and he'd told her to come, get going, this guy was bad news, "What do you think this is, Deliverance? You have to stop seeing rapists everywhere we turn."

He recognized, of course, that his son was extremely upset. But the chances that she was truly hurt? Yes, it was a possibility. But the rational, non-cop side of him knew she'd been totally right. He needed to learn how to relax. It did not behoove him to go into cardiac arrest knowing, knowing deep down, that his son had probably overreacted to whatever this situation was. He'd come up with various plausible, sensible, reasonable scenarios in his head, the most likely being that she'd injured an ankle, and needed him to help her back to the campsite. That his son was so anxious to get him to the scene? He'd seen it in his daughters. A child's misguided attempt to get his daddy's approval by playing responsible adult.

He was kicking himself, however, for not having thought to bring the first-aid kit along. Of course, that was partially his son's fault; the boy had been so eager to tear off, he'd scarcely allowed him to put on his hiking boots and fleece before he'd pulled him into a trot down the little hill.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

They'd been running for at least a mile when his son stopped abruptly ahead of a sharp curve in the path. He nearly charged right into the boy, as the tall, rail-thin body in front of him came to a sudden halt.

Elliot looked all around. No Olivia. At the back of his mind, a gush of relief.

_She's not hurt. Thank God._

So much for promises not to worry.

"Ok, what are we doing here? Can you please tell me what's going on," he pleaded, his curiosity set to overwhelm him, "Where the heck is Olivia?"

Dickie took a step backward, staring straight ahead, trancelike, at the bend in the path. Elliot felt a clammy hand grasp his wrist.

"There." His son pointed with his other hand towards the bend. "Just – just go around there."

All at once, Elliot was consumed by anxiety. Dickie was nervous, trembling, in fact, and even if he had shyness issues at school, this kind of physical display of fear simply wasn't like him. Elliot's attitude softened, and he decided to take his cues from his son. "Okay," he said gently, "let's just – let's just go together. Show me. Show me what you're talking about. Is she – is she around that bend?"

His son didn't answer, but started to lead him, the hand still grasping his wrist.

"Okay," Elliot said, trying to exude a sense of control, "Okay, let's go."

He wished he'd never turned that bend.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Sometime in the three seconds it took him to sprint from the edge of the path to the location behind the tree, where all it took was the sight of that one naked foot protruding from behind the trunk to set his body into motion, Elliot changed. All that talk about being on vacation from being a cop – it was out the window in a flash. He needed to be in cop-mode now. He needed to stay in control, to be a leader. Not just for her, but also for his son.

The three seconds were excised from his memory as soon as they elapsed. It was like he was teleported from the path to the tree. Somehow, instantaneously, he was on his knees, in front of her, arching his neck down to her level, checking her state of consciousness.

_Oh Jesus._

"Olivia! Sweetheart, can you hear me?"

He lightly touched her left bicep, which elicited a weak moan, a slight shudder of her shoulder, a shiver.

_She's still alive._

Gently, he placed two fingers on the side of her neck. Her pulse was weak, but thankfully stable. But it was the skin that took him aback: how had she lasted this long so cold? In one swift motion, he'd pulled off his fleece and draped it over her. Its arms barely extended over her stomach and back, but at least it offered her waist some modicum of warmth. He couldn't believe how cold she was.

_No matter what, keep talking to her._

"Honey, it's okay. I'm here now. We're going to help you."

Her voice was weak and raspy. "Please…" she wheezed, "please don't leave me."

"Honey, I'm not going anywhere. I'm gonna stay with you. No matter what, okay? But you need to stay with me. You need to stay awake for me, okay?"

"Please… stay… please… don't… leave me…"

"I promise," he whispered, reaching down, softly touching her cheek with the back of his hand, his knuckles lightly stroking it, "I promise I'm not going to leave you. I'm right here. I'm right here with you, sweetheart."

It was normal, he knew, for the victim of such an attack to be afraid to be alone. But Olivia seemed _particularly_ hung up on it. Why…

_Oh God, Dickie. _

His son had left her here like this, alone. He could picture it – his poor twelve year-old hovering over her, uncertain, traumatized. Had he touched her? Had he said anything to her? Or had he just turned around and made a beeline back up the path?

_I can't believe he saw this. God help us. I can't believe this is happening._

A wave of nausea threatened to overtake him, as the reality of the situation coursed through him.

_Stay in control. You can't fall apart._

He glanced at his son, who stood by helplessly, mesmerized by the scene. It suddenly occurred to him that Dickie might have witnessed some or all of the attack. He needed more information.

"Dickie. Listen to me. Is this how you found her?" A silent nod. "Was there anyone else here when you got here?" A head shake. "No. Ok. Did she say anything?" His son stood frozen. Deer-in-the-headlights.

_Forget it, leave him alone. This isn't about gathering evidence, it's about keeping her alive._

Elliot turned his attention back to her. He didn't know where to begin. He had no gauze, no equipment, no phone. And the blood was everywhere.

_Think, Stabler. You've been in this situation a hundred times. What do you do when you find a victim?_

And yet not only was this no ordinary victim, these were no ordinary circumstances. For though he was no stranger, unfortunately, to the discovery of semi-conscious, beaten people, his normal protocol was to bark into his walkie-talkie or his cell phone, which always magically appeared in his hand when he needed it, and order the person on the other end to call a bus.

He needed that first-aid kit. And he needed a phone.

"Dickie, listen to me. I need your help, ok? _She_ needs your help."

His son's eyes came alive. "What, dad?"

_Good. Give him something to do. Give him instructions. He'll respond to that._

"I need you to go back to the campsite, ok?"

He hesitated, reconsidering. He didn't like his son going off in the woods alone. He contemplated other options, but the only other possibility was to carry her back to the campsite himself and treat her there. Looking at her again, he could see she wouldn't make it. It was a distance of nearly a mile, and a lot of it was uphill. With what looked like more than a few crushed ribs, and a good deal of unclotted blood in too many places, he knew she couldn't handle it. He considered running back himself, but the look on his son's face told him – no, pleaded with him – not to leave him there alone with her. And anyway, he'd promised her he'd stay.

So there was no choice. He had to send his son. And yet, how could he let him go off alone, knowing her attackers (surely there had to be more than one, given her state) were still out there?

_Make a decision, dammit!_

On the other hand, he knew from experience that these kinds of criminals rarely hung out in the vicinity after committing their crimes; moreover, they tended to stick to the same kinds of victims – in this case, apparently, adult females.

_He'll be okay. He knows the way. You have to take a chance. You have no choice._

"Dickie, listen to me. I know you know the way back. You need to get back to the campsite and get this stuff: One. The first aid kit. Two. One of the sleeping bags. Three. The two blankets. Four. The towels. And five, the cell phones. Five things. I'm counting on you. I know you can do this, because she needs you to. Do you understand?"

Dickie's shoulders straightened, his chest broadened, and he could have sworn his voice dropped an octave. "Yes, dad. Got it. Don't worry, I'll get the stuff!"

His son was confident, now, he could see; he liked being trusted.

"Ok. Repeat the list to me. What are you getting?"

Like a proud soldier rattling off his number at roll call, his son repeated: "The first aid kit. One of the sleeping bags. The two blankets. The towels. The cell phones."

A calm came over him. He felt a surge of optimism. It was going to be ok. His son would get the stuff. His son would be ok. She would be ok. They had to be – there was no choice.

"Good job. Keep repeating the list to yourself. And put it all in the backpack you were carrying yesterday." He contemplated telling his son to dial 9-1-1 while he was on his way back, but decided against it. It wouldn't save much time, and he'd probably have to give a more detailed account of her condition and their location anyway before they sent anyone. And he didn't want his son distracted. He wanted him back as soon as possible.

As Dickie was preparing to make his second trip back up this now-familiar path, the father in him took over for a brief second, as he had an idea. "Dickie. Grab that branch – the one that's lying over there. Carry it with you. And if you see anyone, anyone at all approach you, scream. I don't care who it is, yell your guts out and run back here. Also." He paused, knowing that his next order would feed both his need to be at peace and his son's pride, "you remember that strange reddish-looking tree about halfway along the way? When you pass that tree on your way there, and on your way back, I want you to holler out two of your famous whistles, so I know you're ok. Loud as you can."

Since toddlerhood, his youngest child had possessed an unnatural, bizarre ability to whistle. Not just a whistle-while-you-work type of sound, mind you; no, with his mere lips, this kid could compete with the most obnoxious of football coaches. And now this whistling would offer him a small token of peace of mind. God bless his son, this random talent.

The boy had already turned around, branch in hand, set to carry out his mission.

"And Dickie?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember. Two whistles. If you do it only once, I'm going to assume you're in trouble. Ok?"

_God help us if he only whistles once._

"Ok!"

"And Dickie – "

"Yeah?"

"Hurry."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He was beside himself. It was bad. Worse than he'd initially thought when he'd first knelt down in front of her. She'd been beaten severely; more severely than he'd seen in any victim who'd managed to survive. Which meant he was on borrowed time. And though he was doing his best to be gentle with her, he knew that with every touch, he was hurting her. He tried to temper his touches with words, tried to tell her what he was doing. So she could prepare. So she could get used to his voice. Because he wasn't sure she even understood that he was there. And he'd be damned if she was going to go through this thinking he was someone else – that he was a bad guy – and that she was about to be assaulted all over again.

He had found one spot, the small area on the side of her forehead, near her temple, that wasn't bruised, and didn't seem to elicit an anguished response. He decided to use this. Like Pavlov's dog, whenever he needed to tell her something, or to otherwise soothe her, he placed the palm of his hand on this spot, letting the tips of his fingers reach into her damp hair, stroking it.

He needed to free her wrists. Because the only way he could check her properly was if she was on her back. And the only way to get her on her back was to untie her.

He lifted one thigh behind her, straddling her form, taking in that bloody back, flanked by the waistband of those light-gray sweatpants, and the bra strap. The black lacy one she'd insisted on wearing to bed. "For extra warmth," she'd smiled seductively, her implication clear. He'd liked that. He'd agreed – by all means, wear that to bed – for extra warmth, of course – it was a good idea.

He would have to bandage those wounds on her back. Bloody, festering wounds, the results of welts so deep, they'd split open. Welts clearly created by a belt-buckle.

She grunted.

_Talk to her! Tell her what you're doing!_

"Olivia, I'm going to untie you, okay? Do you understand? I'm going to touch your wrists now."

He was behind her now, lightly holding her wrists, careful not to jerk them upwards. He was horrified by the sight of her hands, which were a deep purple. He typically witnessed this shade of purple only in the morgue. He prayed there was no permanent damage.

The wire had been tied so tight, it had eaten into the flesh of both wrists, causing them to bleed profusely. The blood, still flowing, made the knots slippery to grasp. The detective in him observed the handiwork with particular disgust: they had been trying to be deliberately cruel. To tie each wrist individually with this thin, sharp wire, and to then tie the wrists together? It had been unnecessary, gratuitous. If their goal had been to immobilize her, one winding around both wrists together would have sufficed. This had been sadistic.

He was having trouble with the knots. He was smearing blood all over, trying to loosen… anything. The knots were simply too tight. For the first time in years, he felt overcome with helplessness. If he couldn't even untie her, how was she ever going to survive? Frustrated, he took one last stab at it and carelessly tugged at a knot on her right wrist, which inadvertently caused her arm to displace a quarter-inch on the ground.

"Ahh!" she panted out, her voice an octave higher than he'd heard from her thus far.

He was startled. "Honey, what? What is it? What hurts?" What had caused this reaction, this frenetic cry several decibels higher than the regular moans he'd almost – _almost_ – gotten used to?

"Unnh…" Her breaths were suddenly more rapid, shallow, as she tried to regain equilibrium.

He released her wrists, and placed one palm on her temple, stroking her hair in even, hypnotic motions. "Sweetheart, it's okay. I'm so sorry. Please try to tell me. What hurts?"

She sputtered desperately, trying to articulate herself. "Mmmpp… my… my arm… broken…"

"Your arm is broken?" He cocked his head ninety degrees, trying to see underneath, to the arm on which she was lying. There it was: her humerus bone, visibly fractured and poking against her skin, grotesquely.

He winced. "Oh Jesus. Okay, I see it. Honey, we're gonna take care of that, ok? We're gonna fix it for you. In the meantime, can you tell me if I can move you a different way, so that it doesn't hurt as much?"

He got a grunt in response. She couldn't tell him.

He turned his attention back to her wrists, the interlude having renewed his determination to set her free. It occurred to him that Dickie was a Boy Scout. Didn't Boy Scouts learn how to untie complex knots?

He was buoyed by the thought. His son would help. It was going to be okay.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He'd just heard Dickie's second double-whistle signal – _thank God – he'll be back in a couple minutes_ – when he noticed the blood between her legs. It hadn't been immediately visible because she was lying on her side, legs clamped together. And since she'd been wearing sweatpants, he'd been riding on the hope that maybe – _maybe_ – she hadn't been hurt that way.

But there it was, a crimson puddle, pooling in a steadily increasing perimeter with its center at the crotch of the pants.

_Her period?_

A dash of desperate, wistful hope.

No, she didn't have her period: she'd told him last night that she'd just finished one the previous week.

So could this mean anything other than what he thought it meant? And yet, he was perplexed – he rarely saw victims like this – otherwise brutalized so violently – left clothed.

Could she have put the pants back on herself, after the attack?

He eyed her, realizing there was no way she would have been able to accomplish such a thing in the aftermath of what she'd endured.

_Could Dickie have done it for her? _

The thought stopped him cold.

_Oh God, please tell me he didn't discover her completely nude._

No, he concluded. It would have required too much maneuvering, and he didn't think his son had it in him.

More importantly, what to make of the bleeding? She couldn't have been taken anally; the blood was in the wrong place. And she was not a virgin; an "ordinary" rape would not have caused this much bleeding.

_What in the world did they put you through, sweetheart?_

Delicately, he scooted downwards, attempting to pry her legs apart even as she lay on her side, her wrists still bound behind her back in that awkward, torturous position. Yet the minute he touched her knee, he realized it wasn't going to work. She had to be on her back for this.

He'd have to wait for Dickie.

And this meant Dickie would be present to see this.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He was sweaty from running, but the exertion wasn't a problem; he was in good shape. He had the stuff. It was all in the backpack. He had remembered everything. And he had remembered to whistle. Twice.

He was approaching the bend. He slowed his pace, wanting to give his dad a chance to hear his footsteps, to anticipate his arrival. He didn't want to plow like the Roadrunner back onto this scene.

"Good, you're back."

He approached them, his dad on his knees, bending over her form, his hand soothingly stroking her temple. She looked about the same as when he'd left.

He took a deep breath. How was he going to tell his dad the bad news?

"You got all the stuff?"

"Yeah, the only thing is – "

"Good! Good boy. Here, bring it here."

"Dad, it's just that – "

"It's ok, Dickie, you can come over here. Don't be scared. Here – hand me one of the phones. I'm going to call for help. Everything's gonna be ok."

"Dad! I tried calling 9-1-1 while I was running back. I tried both phones. Dad – there were no bars! There's no service here!"


	4. Innocent

He refused, flat out _r__efused _to process the information. His son had told him something, and he simply chose not to acknowledge it. Because if he did, it meant that Olivia was going to die. _This is what it meant! _

In all those years of being her partner, he'd never really thought she _could_ die. He'd always felt protective, yes. And this protectiveness had been based on a _theoretical _possibility that a bad thing could happen to her, and that when bad things happened, death could ensue. He knew this, that life was inherently unsafe, precarious. That there was nothing in the cards to prevent the fates of all those victims from befalling her. He knew this intellectually, in his head. And so, he always tried to protect her, always worried about her, as he did his children, because that was the protocol; the smart thing to do.

But since the start of this current crisis, he did not, _could _notunderstand that it was possible she could die. That there was this boundary she could cross. That there could possibly come a point when there would cease to be options. Because for all the care he was trying to give her, and for all the treatment he would administer with the tools that he now had at his disposal, he knew he couldn't really save her; he knew the extent of his abilities was to keep her alive until the medics arrived.

There was a big difference between saving someone and merely keeping them alive.

He had been counting on those professionals swooping in and taking over and making everything better.

Professionals who knew what they were doing, who had sophisticated medical equipment.

Professionals to whom he could responsibly abdicate responsibility.

Professionals who would, after several nervous hours, emerge from a room down a squeaky, sterile hall and stoically announce, "she's stable, small concussion, lots of bruises, should be fine." A pat on the back – his amateur dabbling in paramedical procedure had surely saved her – followed by an invitation to see her in her room, the stern admonishment about her need for proper rest belied by the sympathetic prompt to follow said medical professional down the hall.

_That _was how it was supposed to go. _That _was protocol.

He could not understand what it meant to lose this safety net. That help would _not _be on the way. Help was _always _on the way, dammit! It was his motto, his lifeline! No matter how much she had suffered, _was _suffering, death happened to his other victims, not to her. There was _always _a last resort!

He had not considered, really, that things, that the _system, _could fail him so completely. That a cell phone – a device so deceptively simple, yet so fundamental to his life, would prove to be a weak link. He had done everything by the book – two phones, _two _instead of one! _Extra _batteries. _Three _of them! And yet with no service, there was no phone, and with no phone, there would be no help. And with no help, _with no help, _what other possible outcome could there be?

He would eventually emerge with his son from this forest clutching in his arms the lifeless body of his beloved partner.

And so it was for these reasons that he refused to believe what his son was telling him. Instead, an anger, a seething anger, planted itself within him to fill the void of denial, a denial to which he had to cling to survive. And that anger needed to be unleashed.

"No service! What the hell are you talking about? The coverage map shows service all over the state!"

"Well, dad, I mean we can try again, but – "

"Well try again, then! We have to get service somewhere!"

Poor Dickie still hadn't caught on that logic was no defense. "Well, do you want me to walk around, and see if I get a signal, because – "

"Dickie, no, I don't want you to walk around. I want you to make sure you're right. You tried on the way? Well maybe here, in this area, there _is _service!"

"I did try right around here – three times. See look – here's Olivia's phone – no bars! I'm sorry, dad, it's not my fault, I just…"

"How come you even dialed? I _told_ you just to bring the phones, didn't I? I thought I said bring the phones. I don't remember saying anything about dialing! You know, you never listen to me! Your sister, she listens. But you – I tell you to do something, and you don't listen…!"

An unmistakable wetness materialized in his son's eyes. Elliot watched him try to hold it in as he cobbled together a response, "Yeah, but I thought – I wanted to help – I just – I thought…" The tears suddenly came down in a torrent. Oh the irony! To finally have done everything right and to still be getting into trouble!

He watched his youngest child, saw how his outburst, his storm of rage, was affecting him, confounding him. He watched him struggle to articulate a proper defense for his apparently foolish actions, only to come up with the twelve-year-old's classic catchphrase reply to everything.

"Dad, it's – it's not my fault!"

That sweet, tearful, hiccupping voice – so befuddled, so betrayed.

All at once, the anger vanished. For the first time since his arrival at this spot, since that moment when he'd _turned the bend_, Elliot stood, stepped away from the scene of his vigil behind the tree, and put his arms around his sobbing son.

"Shh… It's okay. I'm so sorry. You're right. It's not your fault. You did the right thing. I'm so proud of you. I trusted you, and you delivered." He took a deep breath before continuing, "But now. Now, you and I have to work together, okay?"

He pulled back from the embrace to look at his child. He desperately wanted this moment of redemption to continue; he hadn't fully repented. But there wasn't any time. He wiped away a tear and looked his son square in the eye.

"I know you understand how serious this situation is. And I know how upsetting and scary this is for you. It's scary and upsetting for me too. And I'm so sorry I yelled at you. That was wrong of me. And I hope you understand that I did that only because I'm very, very upset. I'm not mad at you. In fact, you've been terrific. If it hadn't been for you, she might… well, it's a good thing you got here when you did. But this is _still _an emergency. Right now, you and me – we have to both be adults, okay? We have to put aside our fears and work together, okay? And I need your help. I really do. I can't do this alone. We have to be a team, okay?"

"Yeah," Dickie said miserably, "but I don't know what to do… I –"

Elliot saw the raw terror in his son's eyes and all at once his own childishness, his own panic and helplessness was extinguished. He would not put Olivia's survival on the shoulders of a twelve year-old. "Dickie, it's okay. I'm going to tell you what to do. Step by step. We're all going to be okay – _all _of us."

Dickie sniffled. "Okay."

"Good. Good boy. Let's get to work then!"

Father and son released one another, turning back towards the tree, an understanding having been struck between them. There was lots more to talk about, but now was not the time.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He was back on track. Adrenaline pulsing through his veins. It was going to be ok. He just needed to keep her alive a few more minutes. And in a few minutes, he would just need to keep her alive a few more minutes after that. And by the time many bunches of those few minutes had elapsed, he would have carried her down the path, for as long as it took, until the appearance of one of those clearings – those clearings with the picnic tables and the trash cans and the area maps and the pay phones.

A few minutes. Divide and conquer. Now that he could keep her warm, and bandage her wounds, it could be done.

The first order of business was to get her body temperature up. Given that he had been without his fleece for less than a half-hour and was already shivering in his white cotton undershirt (he refused to use the term _wife-beater)_, he was acutely aware that it was only a matter of time before she became hypothermic.

And while that was being done, he needed to get those damn wires off her wrists. Because he wanted to get her on her back as soon as possible. Because the blood between her legs was still pooling.

Elliot addressed his son. "Okay, are you ready? Come over here. Bring me the blankets and the first-aid kit. There's something I need for you to do."

The loyal soldier obeyed.

He took the blanket from his son and knelt behind her, one corner in each hand, ready to envelop her with it.

"Olivia, honey, I'm going to put a blanket over you, okay? This may hurt your back a little, but it's gonna warm you up, okay?"

Slowly, delicately, he removed his fleece from her body and replaced it with the soft flannel blanket, the one under which he'd been enjoying a harmless sex dream less than an hour ago. He covered her completely with it. Somehow, miraculously, she tolerated the contact without crying out.

He expended a moment re-clothing himself with his fleece, which, despite being stained with her blood, now carried her unique, sweet scent. He wistfully inhaled.

_Darling, don't you dare die on me. I can't live without you._

He folded the blanket behind her, pointed at her exposed wrists. "Dickie, c'mere. Take a look at this. What do you think? Are you able to untie her?"

_Jesus, I hope he can handle this. _

His son hesitated, visibly uncomfortable.

Elliot's heart leapt into his throat.

_It's all right, Stabler. He'll be calm if you're calm. Just walk him through it; he understands._

As he was about to reassure his son, however, a transformation took place which obviated the need for such reassurance. Right before his eyes, he watched his son shake off his fear, buck up, and drop to his knees, intent to learn the nature of the challenge before him.

Relief washed over him. His son was treating this as a puzzle, a project, and blocking out the greater surrealism of the situation. The boy would have all the time in the world in the coming days, weeks, months, to express his emotions, to let the full horror of seeing those wrists – of seeing all of this – overwhelm him, devastate him. But right now, he needed him focused. Focused and efficient. No time for emotions. No time to have a heart. A soldier with a mission. A robot with a task.

Bringing his head nearly to ground level to inspect the knots, on his face the same careful, serious expression he used to use to check that the walls of a sandcastle were secure, his son peered at the wrists. The eyes brightened. He looked up, an almost-smile appearing on his young, flushed face.

"Dad, I think I know how to undo these knots. Don't worry. Just gimme a couple minutes."

More adrenaline.

_Remind me to buy you an extra Christmas present._

"Dickie, that's fantastic! Go ahead, do it!"

He watched as his son reached a shaky, hesitating hand toward her wrists. Clearly, a little encouragement was still in order. "Here, let's get a piece of gauze and wipe some of the blood away, okay? It's all right, go on, you won't hurt her."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Just be very, very gentle. Don't make any sudden movements, especially with her right arm, because it's broken." He paused, ventured a glance at Olivia's face, her eyes closed, her mind sequestered in its own world of misery. He tried to keep his voice steady. "She's in a lot of pain, okay? But don't worry – you can touch her. I don't even think she can feel her hands, anyway. Just work slowly and gently."

"Okay," Dickie agreed.

As if on cue, Olivia whimpered.

All at once, Elliot was reminded of the greater mission.

_Keep her alive._

His son was taken care of. His son was fine. Autopilot. It was time to redirect his attention back to where it was most critically needed. He bent his head down to her level, so that his mouth hovered just above her ear. His hand went to her temple, and his fingers settled in her soft, damp hair. A private, intimate whisper in her ear, to let her know he was, as promised, right there with her. "Sweetheart, we're going to untie you, okay?"

Not expecting an answer, he was ebullient to hear the mumble of a reply. "O…kay."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He toiled diligently for several minutes, patiently working through the knots. The wrists continued to bleed, but he was getting used to the sight. Luckily, unlike his twin sister – all _three _of his sisters, come to think of it, the sight of blood had never made him squeamish. He forced himself not to think about the implications of what he was doing, of how she'd gotten this way.

_Just undo the knots. Concentrate. It's not like before, with the gag. Dad's here now. He'll know if you're hurting her. He'll take care of her._

After he had undone the wire binding her wrists together, he realized that there were two more wires binding them individually. He stared at this, confused.

_Why did they do this? They just needed to tie one piece around both wrists… _

He hesitated, looking to his dad for guidance. Technically, she was no longer bound – should he continue?

_Unless… they were just _trying_ to hurt her more…_

He caught his dad's eye. A silent nod. _Continue, _it said. _Get it all off her. I know you've figured it out, about the wires, why they're like that. Just continue; we'll talk about it all later._ He resumed his work.

After several more minutes – _my God – these knots are really tight! – _he unwound the last piece of wire from her right wrist. The indentation marks it left were sensational; like dental floss in Silly Putty. He shuddered.

"Dickie – excellent! Good job! Now, let's quickly bandage those wrists for her – here, hand me the kit. You take one, and I'll take the other. We need to put pressure on them, to stop the bleeding. Here – take this roll of gauze. Watch how I do it."

He watched his dad wrap her right wrist, still behind her back. He imitated the motion with her left.

_I did it. I got her untied. Dad looks happy. I think it's gonna be okay. _

"When we're done with this," his dad was saying, "we have to turn her onto her back, ok? Can you help me?"

Triumphantly, "Sure, dad."

"Good. Okay – " his dad finished with the gauze, peering over at his work, which apparently passed muster, because he continued, onto the next task. "Now, we need to be really really careful. What I need you to do is make sure, as I'm turning her, that her right arm doesn't move, ok? Do you remember when you broke your arm at camp last summer? Remember how much that hurt? Well, her right arm – up here near her shoulder," his dad paused, making a karate-chop gesture towards his bicep, "is broken. And it's really painful for her. Do you understand?"

He could never forget the experience of breaking his arm. And he'd moved it too, accidentally, on the way to the hospital. He'd thought he'd pass out from the pain. "Yes. Don't worry. I got it. Lemme get to this side – " he shifted around to her front, where he hovered his hands near the ground by her crushed arm, standing by to assist as his dad prepared to rotate her onto her back. "Ok, I'm ready!"

"All right, here we go!"

His father gently took her left arm, which had remained captured behind her back, and rested it on her hip, and then planted his right hand on her shoulder, cupping it. The blanket had fallen away a bit. He watched, fascinated, as his dad then planted his left hand on her chest, above her breasts, his five fingers spread out like a fan. His dad leaned in to whisper in her ear.

_Is this what he does every day? Is this his job?_

He watched his father do all this, mesmerized. As much by the tenderness as by the courage to talk to her, the knowledge of what to say, and how to soothe. He was riveted.

And then, in one gentle motion, father and son, together, accomplished the maddeningly simple task of getting the dying woman onto her back.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He was nervous. He didn't know what he was going to find. And he wasn't looking forward to the process of finding it.

He needed to pull her pants down. He knew this was necessary; he knew there was no other way. And yet he didn't have the heart to do it. To deal with her reaction. Because she was just conscious enough to feel what was happening to her, but not lucid enough to understand that he wasn't trying to rape her.

And then there was his son…

_Should I explain it to him? Is he old enough? Will he understand? He's already seen so much today, anyway… But this is different. This is crossing a line. I should at least try to preserve some of his innocence. _

"Dad, I think she's bleeding – there's umm, there's blood between her legs…"

So much for innocence_._

"Yeah, Dickie, I uhh, I know. I'm going to check that for her."

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"What's rape?"

He froze. The Question. The one he'd known he'd have to answer, one day, from one of his children. And now, from his only son. His youngest child.

_Tell him you'll explain it to him later. Tell him now's not the time._

And yet, surely the boy already knew. At least that it was something sexual. That it had something to do with what had happened to her. With the blood. The cat was already out of the bag.

_You can't lie to him. It's not fair. And he'll know, anyway, that you're hiding something._

"Dickie, rape is when a person forces another person to have sex with them."

_Good. He can understand that. Leave it at that._

"Is that what you do? Is that what kind of detective you are?"

"Yeah, it is."

"Was, umm, was Olivia raped? Is that why there's blood?"

_Tell him the blood is from a different injury, that it trickled down or something. _

He looked up at his son, so curious, so uncorrupted, so… twelve. Wanting to make sense of what was going on, of what had happened to her. Of why.

_I don't know why this happened, Dickie. I have never known why this happens. In a hundred years, I still won't know. _

"Dickie, why don't you go over to the tree and see if maybe the cell phones work now."

"Oh… Okay, I'll try again." The Understanding. His son knew when he wasn't wanted. No one was fooling anyone with the cell phone excuse.

When his son had traversed a safe distance from the scene, he braced himself for the task ahead. He knew there was no underwear; he remembered that from last night. So it was just the pants. A thin pair of light-gray sweatpants clinging to her hips, the guardian of any scrap of dignity she might have left. And now he was going to have to strip her of those pants, and of that dignity. Violate her. _Olivia. _His partner, the love of his life.

_Just keep talking to her, keep explaining. Talk slowly, softly. She'll be okay._

"Olivia, I need to look between your legs, okay? Do you understand? I'm going to pull your pants down just a bit, just a bit, so I can check. I just need to stop the bleeding, that's all. I'm not going to hurt you, honey. It's just me, it's Elliot."

He looked at her face, her eyes still closed, her expression still one of unadulterated pain. He took a deep breath, and grasped the waistband of her pants.

The reaction was instantaneous. "No, please! Stop! Please, not again!" She struggled, moving her knees, flaying her arms about, forgetting, _forgetting_ about the state of her right arm. All at once she was gasping, rocking right and left, moaning, panting in excruciating pain.

In a flash, he had released the waistband, and was at her side, stroking her hair. "Shh... shh… Honey, it's all right. It's all right, nobody's going to hurt you anymore. Shh… it's okay…"

_You have to do it. There's no other choice. There's too much blood. _

"Dickie," he called, "come over here."

"Yeah, dad? I still can't get a signal – "

"Forget about that. Listen to me. I need you to help me with something very serious."

"Yeah?"

_Oh God forgive me. _

"Normally, I would not ask you to do this. This is a very, umm, grown-up thing that I want you to do. But we don't really have a choice right now."

_Oh, my boy. Please forgive me for what I'm going to ask you to do._

"Dickie, I need to, umm, examine Olivia down… where the blood is. But she's too upset right now to understand what I'm doing to her…"

_Oh, my dear. Please forgive me for what I'm going to ask him to do to you._

"So I, uhh, I need you to hold her down while I check her."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He was terrified. He didn't think he could do it. He knew he was physically strong enough, that if he wanted to, he could completely immobilize her. But how could he do such a thing to her? Even if his dad told him to? Even if it was to save her life?

He was pretty sure something awful – something more terrible than getting beaten up, had happened to her. It had to do with the blood. He knew women bled once a month; this he knew. He shared a bathroom with three sisters, after all. But he knew this was different. His father had evaded the question, sent him to the tree. He had known not to press it, that this wasn't the time. But he knew. She had been raped.

His dad was back up near her head now, on her right side.

"Dickie, do you remember how they had to set your arm? They pushed the bone back into place before they put the cast on?"

"Yeah…"

"All right, we have to do that for her now. It's gonna be painful for her, but it's the only way."

"Okay…"

"Now, once I do that, I need you to hold it in place. Completely. You have to make sure she can't move it at all. And then I want you to reach over her, and with the other hand, hold down her other arm, ok?"

"Okay…"

"Dickie, listen to me. You need to understand something. She's probably going to cry out. I'm not going to lie to you – she's not gonna like this. It'll probably upset her, when you do this. But I want you to understand this – this is to help her. She's not going to blame you afterwards, I promise. _This isn't your fault._"

"Okay…"

His dad prepared to grasp her upper arm. "All right. Grab that stick over there. And some of the surgical tape from the first aid kit. We're gonna splint it for her. Olivia, I'm going to set your arm. Honey, it's gonna hurt, but then you're going to feel better, okay? Do you understand? I'm going to fix the bone."

In one swift motion, before she had a chance to respond, before he had a chance to prepare, his dad had taken her arm in his hands and squeezed. He heard a _crack. _She let out a howl, her head thrashing from side to side. His dad grabbed the stick from his hand, and placed it along the length of her bicep, fastening it with a wad of surgical tape. She settled down somewhat, but continued to whimper.

"Okay, Dickie, c'mere." He got up from his spot, scurrying to her other side, next to his dad. "Gimme your left hand." He obeyed. His dad took his left hand, and clamped it squarely over her right inner elbow. She squirmed. "Hold it here like this. Don't let her move it. Now," He paused, trying to assess the best way to maneuver his son. "Give me your other hand…" his dad grasped his right hand, and guided it over her body, planting it lightly on her left arm. His dad retreated, leaving him awkwardly bent over her body. "There. Now, be careful not to put all your weight on her, okay? Just apply enough pressure so she can't struggle. There you go."

"Okay…" He was paralyzed. If she were to open her eyes this second, she would find him hovering over her, gaping.

"Please… no…" she begged.

His dad thankfully took the responsibility of a response. "Olivia, it's okay. We're not going to hurt you. Just try to lie still while I do this, okay? It's going to be quick, I promise. One-two-three and then it'll be over, and we'll let go of you."

_I don't think she understands what dad's saying._

His dad shifted backwards, back to his position at her legs. He was now all alone up here, his face inches from hers. He could see the cuts, the bruises. He hated seeing that pain, that anguish, but there was no other place to look. He could hear his dad bend her knees, fold the blanket over them, watched as her expression changed to one of panic. She began to struggle. He maintained his vice grip on her right arm, careful not to squeeze too hard. He applied slightly less pressure to her left, but enough not to let her escape his hold. Like his dad said.

"Dickie, come on, hold her. Make sure that arm doesn't move at all. Olivia – it's all right, try not to move. I'm not going to hurt you."

He watched her face as the pants came down.

She cried out, tried to thrash. To no avail.

His father pried her legs apart.

She fought harder.

But he maintained his grip.

She began to cry.

He heard his dad gasp.

He tried to turn his head.

And then he heard his father utter two small words, sending chills up his spine.

"Oh. Jesus."


	5. Guilty

She didn't understand. She'd thought it was over. She'd thought she'd heard his voice. She'd thought she was being helped. That even if there was no justice in the world, there may still be some semblance of mercy. And now, somehow, it had all been a dream. An illusion. A hallucination. Because she was being held down again. And they had hurt her arm. And her legs were apart. And something was moving inside her.

She tried to fight, but he was too strong for her. And yet he didn't seem terribly strong; perhaps it was that she was too weak. And in too much pain.

She hadn't known it could be this bad. All those years, investigating these kinds of crimes. Being a _result _of this kind of crime. She'd _mostly _understood how bad it could be. She'd understood the concept of bodily violation. That the indignity of the violation was worse than the physical pain. That the fear of a repeat occurrence permeated, infected, all rational thought for the rest of the victim's life. And yet she hadn't really understood it at all. Until now.

To _fully _understand meant to understand what it meant to have one's soul invaded, penetrated, infested. By filth. Like a cocoon of maggots hatching inside. To be made to deliberately lose all sense of personal dignity. All sense of person. To suffer a violation so profound that death, and whatever uncertainties and horrors came along with it – including an eternity without _him_ – seemed the more attractive option. Because choosing life now meant living without the security of knowing that her body was her own.

She was crying now. Sweating. Struggling. Thrashing. Bleeding. Hurting.

Begging.

She had never begged before in her life. For anything. Not for toys, not for clothes, not for attention. Not to stop being hit by a woman too drunk to know the difference. She had pledged years ago never to beg. It was a rule. A vow. To herself. Her pride was what kept her going, alive, sane. Kept her from losing herself in self-pity.

And so, inside, she was cringing that today she had been made to break that vow, that she wasn't strong enough to take it. The part of her brain that was still functioning told her to _stop it! _– begging was futile. She knew this, intellectually, rationally. And the proud side of her also wanted her to stop; she was apparently going to be humiliated like this, degraded, defiled, whether she voiced her reaction to it or not, so how _dare_ she give them the satisfaction.

But in the end it was the part of her brain that was registering all that pain that won out. The physical pain of having it pushing inside her. The pain of being held down on a beaten back. The pain of being too weak to fight them off. The pain of being made to be the object of others' misplaced rage. The pain of having it happen _again._

So yes, she begged. Like she'd never begged before.

As long as Elliot lived, he would never forgive himself for what he was doing to her. Somehow, the excuse of not having a choice didn't seem good enough to him. He had to do this to save her life, and yet how could he _not_ damn himself for this? For making his son an accomplice in this?

She was squirming, panting, crying. Using up all of her physical energy, which he knew was in short supply. Trying to get out of his son's grasp.

But his twelve-year-old child was holding her down, and she, his tough, proud partner, so full of strength, full of spirit, full of moxie, was too weak.

He could see his son tighten his grip on her arms the more she struggled. Forcing her to stay down. To submit. Following his orders. So he could torture her.

And she was doing something he'd not thought her capable of doing: she was begging.

But that was the thing about not having a choice. He _had _to do it.

Because he had promised her she'd be okay.

Because he had promised his _son _she'd be okay.

Because he refused to allow her to bleed to death.

Because he refused to attend a funeral.

For the first time he understood the nature of the crime he'd been investigating for years, finally understood what it meant to be _committing _this crime. And yet as he proceeded with his task, his _inspection, _he also dissociated from it, using the time to appreciate the full implications of the crime that had been committed against her.

Even by his own unit's standards, this had been brutal. Most of his dead victims had suffered less than she had. Certainly, most who'd survived had suffered less. Individually, her injuries were not inconsistent with those of countless other victims: Bruises, a broken limb, cracked ribs, shackled wrists, blood. But few victims were tied up just for the sake of making them hurt more. Few had their backs flogged with a belt buckle, wielded with the power of a male's maximum physical capability.

He could picture her lying there, not yet tied up, on a bruised stomach, a stomach already beaten so badly (a branch? a tent pole? a booted foot? a baseball bat?) that restraints would be wholly superfluous – she clearly wasn't fighting back. The unfastening of a buckle. The slithering of leather out of denim loops. The bicep flexing. A sweaty, muscular arm drawing back, the belt flying behind him, poised to strike. And then, the hard metal slamming down on naked flesh with unmitigated fury, zeal. Over and over. Dozens of strokes.

And when the motion of swinging grew tiresome, or boring, and _only _then, when her ability to move must have been so, so, limited, (that is, if she had even still been conscious,) he could picture her arms being jerked behind her bleeding back. Her chin must have scraped into the twiggy, granular earth. Tears and dirt and blood and saliva would have mixed. The wires would then make their first appearance: barbed, sharp, razor-thin. Wrapped around each wrist. Carefully. Meticulously. Attention paid to making them tight, to deliberately constrict blood flow, to cut into flesh. Was her arm already broken at this point? Was that another purposeful act of torture, or had it happened in the course of the struggle? This he couldn't say, but he had a sick feeling he knew the answer.

And yet none of this, _none _of this compared to what had apparently taken place farther down. For while he'd heard medical examiners describe rapes at levels of horror that at times transcended the imagination, he had never actually, _physically,_ seen what he was seeing right now.

_Raped with a foreign object_.

An impersonal, clinical phrase he'd uttered a thousand times. And yet in how many of those cases had he spent days trying to ascertain what the "foreign object" of choice had been? The whole case being stalled as he waited to hear back from Forensics for some clue as to what the microscopic fibers found inside the victim indicated. But in this case – _in his own partner's case – _no such speculation, analysis, sleuthing was necessary. He didn't need to be a detective for this one. He didn't even need to be a cop.

_Those animals. Those monsters. They left it inside her._

His son was turning his head now. Trying to see what was going on. Why he'd sounded so horrified.

_Under no circumstances can he see this._

Yet was it really better to force his son to turn his gaze back to her face, where he'd be made to stare at the results of his handiwork? Where he'd find out what it felt like to be more powerful than another person, and to use that power against them?

_Come on, Stabler. Just get it out of her. You need to get him off her. This can't go on much longer. _

In one clean motion, he gently reached inside her, and withdrew the object. She tried to fight him with her legs, but he kept his free hand firmly planted on her knee, clumsily forcing her to keep her legs opened. The blood flowed out of her. When he had withdrawn the object, he let go of her knee and grabbed one of the towels. He rolled it up. Her knees had already clamped shut by the time he had a chance to stick the towel between them. He hesitated.

_She doesn't know what's going on. She's too far gone. You have to stop the bleeding. Just do it. _

He pried open her legs again, ignoring her continued pleas, and firmly wedged the towel in place.

She cried.

There was more movement inside her. He let go of her knees, and she thought he was done, but then he grasped them again. She'd thought it was over.

All at once she felt herself fading. The pain wasn't going away, but her mouth was filling and there was liquid in place of air.

_Maybe this is the end. Please let this be the end. I wish I was stronger, so I could see him one more time, but God help me, this is too much for me. Please forgive me, Elliot._

A long, thick wooden stake. Used to mark a vegetable row in a garden. Or a pet's grave. Or a trail in a forest. No need to sand away its splinters and jagged edges, for it was not meant to be handled. Just stuck in the ground and left alone. Not meant as a weapon. Not as a tool of torture. Not as an instrument of rape.

With just one look at the innocent piece of wood, he had solved the mystery of the sweatpants.

_To keep it in place_.

Between leaving her naked but free, and clothed but in a perpetual state of rape, they had opted for the latter.

The irony was that the stake had been lodged too deep and the pants were too loose for the clothing to have made any difference at all. They could have left her naked and the torture would have been complete.

_I don't even want to know how much it hurt for them to force you back into these pants. _

Unfathomable cruelty, depravity. _Evil_. Sometimes he wished he wasn't a detective. Why did he need to know this? Wasn't it enough to find her like this, to take her injuries at face value? Did it really help her for him to be aware of just how much _deliberate, targeted, premeditated _pain she'd suffered at the hands of sadists?

The wooden stake lay on the ground beside him. An innocuous, average piece of wood. Except for the fluids and blood coating it.

_Evidence. You can't lose the stake. See if there's a plastic bag or – _

Suddenly his attention was diverted. Back to her. Her struggles had somehow changed. There was a subtle difference to her movements – more erratic, less targeted at getting his son off her. The boy whipped his head around, his eyes screaming in panic.

"Dad?"

He realized what was wrong. His autonomic nervous system went haywire.

_She can't breathe! _

"Dickie – let her go! Now!"

His son did as he was told. As quickly as humanly possible, he grabbed her knees and drew them together, laying her legs flat on the ground, hoping the pressure would keep the towel in place. The sweatpants were still around her ankles, and he was wary of his son. He hastily pulled the blanket down, covering her completely. With that done, he scrambled back up to her left side, perching near her shoulder.

She was gasping for breath and there was blood coming out of her mouth. He slid his right arm beneath the arch of her back, letting his hand snake its way to her other side, where he grasped her right side, close to her armpit, careful not to press into her skin, lest he disturb another broken bone. The sleeve of his fleece had rolled up partway, and he could feel the cold, clammy, wet flesh of her back against his lower arm. Praying that the contact with her back would not upset her further, he arched his elbow upwards in an upside-down V, along her back, so that her neck would now rest in the crook of his elbow. Slowly, he raised his arm, drawing her upwards and into his arms, enabling her to sit up for the first time since he'd found her.

Her head lurched forward, her lips slightly ajar, and she drooled a small trickle of blood. She tried to inhale, and he could hear the liquidy obstruction subsiding. He placed the palm of his left hand flat on her cheek near her temple, his pinky close to her eye, holding her head steady for her. Like a Lamaze coach, he tried to coax her to relax, to let her lungs do their jobs. With no ventilator at his disposal, no way to Heimlich away an obstruction made of her own liquid blood, her only chance now lay in her ability to calm down.

He whispered softly in her ear. Hypnotic, soothing words. "That's it, honey. Deep breaths. Slowly. Just breathe for me, darling. It's okay. I'm right here, sweetheart. It's over. Shh…."

He kept his arms around her, trying to comfort. His legs were stretched out in front him, parallel to hers. She crumpled sideways into him. She had stopped thrashing about when he'd let go of her legs. He wasn't sure what her state of mind was; her expression revealed nothing of whom she thought was holding her. He was just grateful that the episode was over. Whatever was ahead of him, it no longer included simulating a rape.

Thankfully, her breathing was returning to normal, but he was profoundly worried. There had been blood in her mouth. She had choked on it.

He was acutely aware that he'd just come frighteningly close to losing her.

_You need to get her to a hospital. Fast. _

He had been holding her for about a minute, working with her on her breathing, rocking her gently, whispering, encouraging, comforting. He had moved his own cheek against hers, displacing his hand, which she seemed to like. The cheek-to-cheek contact was soft, damp. Her blood and his tears.

In spite of the direness of the situation, the physical contact with her; the sweet scent, the intimacy of it, made his heart lurch with love. He thought of last night, of how perfect things had been. There had been a moment when he'd been holding her just like this, in an almost identical position. After they'd made love for the second time. They'd sat up, staring over the hill, inhaling the crisp, cool mountain air. He'd experienced a bizarre, unusual sense of calm. He had struggled to articulate the feeling in his head. He'd almost laughed when it'd come to him.

_Happiness._

The simplicity of it had startled him. Yes, he was happy. It had been so long since he'd experienced happiness – simple, unadulterated joy for life, contentment – that he almost hadn't recognized it when he felt it.

He looked down at her now. Her silky hair brushed against his neck. He was committed to giving himself completely to her, heart and soul. He would do anything for her. He prayed that there would come a time in their future when he would get to hold her like this again.

Even as he experienced these feelings, he was trying to plot a rational course of action. One thing was clear: he was going to have to carry her to a phone. Help would not be coming to them and he would not leave her to find it on his own. Based on yesterday's distances, he predicted that the next clearing should be about two miles away. He knew he could easily carry her this distance; he was strong enough. The issue was whether or not she would live through it.

_A few minutes. You've kept it going this long. Come on, you can do it. Just keep keeping her alive. _

As he resolved to begin the process of leaving the scene, of mobilizing to pick her up, he realized his son was still on his knees, near her feet, silently watching her.

"Buddy, are you okay?"

His son didn't respond, but just continued to stare at her. He looked set to cry.

"Hey, why don't you come up over here, sit next to me?" Though the blanket was covering her, he didn't like that his son was sitting so close to her legs. He wasn't sure if he was being protective of her modesty or of his son's innocence. Either way, he wanted his child close to him. Without a word, the boy obediently scooted to his side. His gaze, however, remained on her.

"Dickie, she's gonna be all right. You've been such a great help. We're going to talk about all this a lot more when this is –"

_Don't say "over." It makes it sound like she might not make it…_

"After we get her help… okay? We'regonna get through this. I promise."

"It's my fault."

The statement was uttered so quietly, without expression, without intonation, that he wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "What? What's your fault? You didn't do anything wrong."

"I… I… " He watched as his son's chin began to quiver, his brow furrowing as his entire face worked to hold in the tears. The eyes would not meet his.

"Dickie, listen to me. You did not do _anything _wrong. Do you hear me? What just happened before – I _told _you to do it, and I know she was very upset, but what you did – it saved her life. Do you hear me? You helped save her life."

"No… No… Not that…"

Elliot was confused. "Then what? What are you talking about?"

"I… she was choking just now… it's my fault…"

"It's your fault she was choking? It's _not _your fault. She was choking because somebody hurt her. It had nothing to do with your holding her down –"

"No! That's not what I mean. It's from before. I took it out… If I hadn't, she wouldn't be bleeding…"

"Dickie, wait a second. What did you take out? What are you talking about? Did something happen when you found her?"

The boy looked him in the eye, giving him a slow nod. Bucking up to confess, to purge himself of this strange guilt he was carrying. "I thought it would help her. I didn't know it would – "

"Dickie, please. Just tell me what you're talking about. I'm sure you didn't do anything wrong. Just tell me what you took out."

"The gag."

His heart sank in his throat. What else didn't he know about what had happened to her? He swallowed a lump, glancing at her blood-red lips. Quietly, dejectedly, with tears in his voice, he asked, "She was gagged when you found her?"

A silent, frightened, pitiful nod.

"And you took it out for her?"

"Un-huh…"

"So let me understand: there was a gag in her mouth, and you took it out for her?"

"Yeah. It was a big cloth, like a dishrag or something, and then a bandana tied over it, behind her head."

_Sweet Jesus. Was there no limit to what these bastards did to you?_

Elliot tightened his grip around her. An involuntary, tragically belated attempt to envelop, to shield, to protect. "And then you –" He stopped himself.

_Don't say "And then you left her?" Don't sound accusatory._

"And that was it? That was what you did?"

"Yeah."

"Dickie, I don't know what to say, except that you did the right thing. What in the world makes you think you did something wrong, and that it has anything to do with what just happened?"

"Because…" A hiccup. "Because, the blood… The gag – there was blood on it. And... and… I thought… it was absorbing the blood. She choked on it, and –"

All at once he understood. Bless his heart, his child thought the gag had been _stopping_ the bleeding. Just the way a cotton cloth would normally stub the flow on an _external _wound. And by removing it he'd let her nearly choke to death on her own blood.

"Dickie, there is absolutely, positively, _no way _that that gag was helping her in any possible way. She was bleeding anyway, and the gag wasn't stopping it. And if you hadn't taken it out for her, I don't think she would've made it. She probably would have choked a lot sooner. If anything, I'm sure it was making it even harder for her to breathe. And I'm sure she hated having it in –"

"No, that's what I thought, too. But she… she… was upset, when I was doing it. I thought she wanted it, but she –"

_She must have recoiled. She must have whimpered when he touched her. He doesn't understand what he did for her, how much he helped her._

"Dickie, listen to me. There's no way she didn't want that gag out. She was probably in so much pain, she didn't understand that you were there, or what you were doing. But that doesn't mean she wasn't thrilled to have it out. Let me tell you something – I've been so proud of you today, of how you've handled yourself, of your judgment, of the decisions you've made, and now, hearing this, I'm even prouder. I know a lot of adults who wouldn't have known what to do in this situation. Dickie, you've saved her life today, more times than you know."

It was over now. She was sitting up, it seemed, and, somehow, it was over. She could breathe. There was less pain between her legs and in her arm. She was being held. Soft, gentle arms. A stubbly cheek against hers, supporting her aching head.

But how could she be sure this wasn't a dream? How did she know it was really him? How could she trust he was really here, helping her, soothing her, holding her? That this wouldn't suddenly devolve into another episode of horror?

There was only one way to know.

_You have to open your eyes._

Elliot thought she'd grown more alert in the last few minutes. Her eyes were less clenched; her expression less pained. Her breathing was normal. And she seemed to be responding, subtly, to the sound of his voice.

As if on cue, like a miracle, he was rewarded with the movement of eyelashes against his skin. He moved his head to look at her, just as she began to speak.

"El…liot?"

His heart pounded so hard in his chest he worried it would hurt her. "Olivia! Honey, it's me. I'm right here. Sweetheart, I'm right here. I've got you."

"Unhh..." she grunted. He was used to this sound by now: her expression of general hurt. He was almost glad to hear it; compared to the frantic screams of the previous ten minutes, this was a welcome sound.

"I know, honey, I know. We're gonna get you to a hospital. You just have to hang on a little longer."

Her head cocked weakly sideways, sliding against his cheek.

For the first time since the start of this crisis, he felt a genuine surge of optimism. They weren't out of the woods yet, so to speak, but she seemed to be improving. It seemed like she might make it.

She took a deep breath, her lungs sounding clear, and opened her mouth to speak again. "Three."

His eyes widened, trying to process. "Three? Three what? Olivia, what do you mean?"

Her eyes closed again and she slumped, her entire body going limp in his arms.


	6. Weak

**WARNING: this chapter contains graphic details of violence. Please heed the "M" rating.**

He had fallen asleep. He hadn't meant to, but he'd sat down to rest against a tree, and next thing he knew his watch read 6:42 a.m. He was on the ground, on his right side in a random, awkward position. His right arm was numb. He was cold; somehow he'd ended up stripped down to his wife-beater and jeans. He rolled onto his back and groaned. It had been hours, but he was still in pain. He didn't want to tell his brother, who'd laugh at him, and was anyway still asleep, but _Christ _how it hurt. He was worried there was serious damage.

_That bitch. I hope she's still lying there._

If only he'd been angled _slightly _differently, the kick would've hit him in a different way, and all this would have been avoided. He would've been able to do it. But he'd been distracted by the sudden lack of light when Jake had moved in front of the campfire. The moonlight had still been strong, so things were still reasonably well illuminated, but in that split second of losing his main source of light, he'd paused, losing his rhythm.

His cheeks still burned when he thought about it. They'd _laughed _at him. His brother Jake, and that no-good piece-of-trash friend of his – what the fuck was his name? Errol.

_Errol. Even sounds like a cellmate's name._

That bitch had gotten in one good kick – _one stupid, lousy, lucky kick – _a kick that could just as easily have hit either of them, while _they'd_ been doing her, and they'd laughed hysterically at him, bent over, holding himself, doubled up in pain.

_As if their junk is made of steel._

If they'd been holding her down properly, the way he'd done for them, when it had been each of their turns, he would've been fine. But no. Instead, they'd been too busy fiddling with that cloth, which she'd managed to spit out after Jake had done her for the second time. Getting it into her mouth again, pulling her hair so she'd keep her head still, flicking their cigarette ashes at her, slapping her in the face. And so she'd been free to move her legs. So just when he was getting himself ready, climbing on top of her, undoing his buckle, suddenly, all at once, he was in so much pain, he couldn't perform. _They'd _been able to do it, _they'd _had their rightful turn – his brother had even gone twice – and he was left limp, unable to prove himself. And dammit, he'd been looking forward to it.

It had been so enthralling to watch them on top of her. They even had their own distinct styles. His brother, tall, reed-thin, but deceptively muscular, enjoyed the physical intimidation. It was why he knew Jake preferred them strong, feisty; it made the thrill of breaking them all the more exciting.

Errol, on the other hand, was more into the humiliation. He'd made her take him in her mouth first. Made her _ask _him to take him in her mouth. Knowing she would esist. Gave him the perfect excuse to break her arm. Of all her parts to hurt, to punish, it was a seemingly random choice, really, but he thought he understood the reasoning: throw her off-guard, unnerve her, weaken her a bit first. Show her who was in charge. So she'd be more pliable. So she'd break sooner. So she'd suddenly be pleading,_ begging_ to have him in her mouth. So she'd think she'd had a choice.

Tommy had been chosen as the one to grab her arm, lay it down flat on the ground. Like presiding over an amputation. Clinical. Impersonal. Professional. Like placing a sacrificial lamb on the altar. A slab of meat about to be hacked. Errol had grabbed the bat, stood over her. Everyone had stopped for a moment, waiting for her to catch her breath, so she could look, see the tall, fat beast towering over her. Register her fear. Show her respect. _Appreciate _the moment. Errol had raised the bat over his head. Jake had done the honors of covering her mouth with his hand. She'd moved her head back and forth, but Jake had both hands to work with; she didn't stand a chance of uttering a sound.

She'd closed her eyes, resigned. Bracing herself. Preparing herself for the senseless destruction of her humerus.

There had been a silence in the air for a moment, and she'd even reopened her eyes, wondering what was going on.

_Bam!_

Errol had slammed the bat down, right on her bicep. A perfect stroke. There'd been a fantastic _crack. _Her eyes had rolled back in her head as her entire body had reverberated in terrific, awesome agony.

After that, the words had tumbled right out of her.

"_P-please, l-let me… suck you…"_

_Now_ his brother and Errol could have their proper fun. She had been properly disciplined.

Tommy had kept his eyes glued to the expression on her face the whole time. He'd licked his lips. He was being patient, savoring his chance. Her face was beet-red, sweaty, blood streaming down in a trickle from her cut left eye – his brother's ring must have sliced it when he backhanded her. She was clearly trying to hold in tears. But with every one of Jake's hard, pointed thrusts – thrusts that purposefully carried the meanness of the world in them – she was flinching, and he knew it was only a matter of time before she broke. Any pride she had left was slowly ebbing, dissolving into a more primal urge. The urge to let go and admit to them she knew who was boss.

For the time being, though, she was holding out. But they'd beat her so hard in the beginning, it would be impossible for her _not_ to eventually make noise – both Jake and Errol were massive guys and every push into her meant a hundred pounds of meaty, sweaty flesh slamming down on fractured ribs. Not to mention he, Tommy, was holding her down on her broken arm.

By the time Errol was done with her, and Jake had decided he wanted yet another turn before he gave his little brother his rightful shot – _the_ _fucking bully – _an executive decision had been made to gag her. She'd finally starting vocally registering her pain, which they liked, but this also posed a problem: she was making too much noise, and who knew what kinds of echoes this forest might propagate. And unlike Errol, Jake wasn't a mouth guy anyway.

By this point, after having had _two _of them do her, (_three _if you counted Errol's oral initiation,) she'd finally given in and started out-and-out begging. It was the begging that Jake really liked, turned him on. It was the part of the whole thing his brother relished, made it all worthwhile. Tommy knew his brother would do her over and over again if he had to, till he heard it.

The _please. _

Meak, humble, obsequious. Like those puppies that used to whimper when he tied their tails.

Acknowledging his power. Respecting it. Revering it. Appealing to it. To any chance, however minute, that he might offer her some scrap of mercy.

"_Please, please stop… Please, no more…"_

Getting a proud one like this to beg was the whole point of the exercise. But that was the thing about his brother – once he got his desired reaction, like experiencing the climax itself, he was satisfied; there was no longer any reason not to shut her up. So Errol had retrieved his hanky, the one he seemed to carry on him everywhere, to blow his nose and to wipe his forehead – the damn pig was so fat, he was always sweating – and they'd shoved it into her mouth. Technically she could have spit it out, but Tommy figured that after the episode with her arm, she didn't dare.

So Jake had done her again, just for the hell of it, but this time it had been a relatively silent experience. Tommy had watched again, fascinated. Watched the back of his brother's head – that full head of long, greasy brown hair, cut in a shaggy mullet – rising and falling. The hard, toned biceps and triceps pumping. The long scraggly armpit hair, protruding from that ratty, sweat-stained wife-beater, appearing and disappearing in sync. It had almost looked like he was doing push-ups. Except instead of both palms laying flat on the ground, they were clutching her breasts.

Right before his climax, he'd bent down and licked her neck, his thin, barely-sprouted moustache brushing against her smooth, soft skin. She'd tried to move her neck away, but there wasn't much place for it to go.

Tommy had secretly been disappointed when they'd shoved the rag into her mouth. He'd been looking forward to hearing her beg _him. _To _be _begged. To finally not be the be_ggar. _They'd ruined that for him. But he dared not suggest they take it out again. To jeopardize the whole thing just to be begged? That was more pathetic than having to make do with the haunted look in her eyes.

So Jake had done her again, and then, finally, it had been Tommy's turn. He'd loved that she didn't seem to be one of those weepy, weak women. No – this one had spirit, had spunk! All the more exciting, satisfying to vanquish her. Beat her. Subdue her. Make her submit. To _him_, this time.

Except that she'd been strong enough to deliver that goddamn kick. His turn. The moment had finally arrived, and she'd gone and ruined it for him.

And as if the reactions of his brother and that _loser_ hadn't been enough, there'd been the look on _her_ face – a _glint _– he'd seen it. For that split-second, he had seen something in her eye. When she realized he couldn't do it. That he was too soft. She'd been careful to mask it, of course – she wasn't stupid. But he'd seen it.

_Glee._

It was bad enough that he'd always been physically smaller, shorter, than his brother Jake. It was something their father had never let him forget. Not that Jake, of course, hadn't suffered either. But Jake had had the wherewithal to grow up and get the hell out. While he, Tommy, had been left at home with that monster. That monster and that useless whore of a mother who cowered away, always letting him get hurt. Never protecting him.

How _dare _she laugh at him like that with her eyes? How _dare _she kick him? Embarrass him in front of his brother and Errol? Just when he was getting ready to show them he was just as much of a man?

It had just made him so _furious. _That piece of wood had been lying right there on the ground, like a sign from God. He'd grabbed it impulsively, and shoved it into her, hard. Jake and Errol had kept on laughing –

"_Look'atim, Jake! Your pathetic baby brother can't get a bitch on his own, and when we get one for him – a real hot one too – and she's all ready for him, even then, he can't get it up!"_

He'd started thrusting it into her faster, harder, more zealously. The more they laughed, taunted, watching this scene – the scene of his failure, his humiliation – the more he channeled his fury, his shame, his helplessness, into her. She'd all but stopped struggling at this point, but he had not yet spent his fury. His wrist had started to hurt after a while, and Jake and Errol were itching to get out of there – they'd had this bitch for at least an hour and who the fuck knew when someone would come looking for her?

So he'd agreed. They should go. He'd tossed the stake aside. They'd stamped out the fire, grabbed their stuff. Left her there.

But later – ten minutes? fifteen? – later when Jake and Errol had disappeared to God knows where, he had turned around and gone back. At first he'd merely loitered, watching her from behind a tree. Watching her try to crawl away, find somebody to help her. After what they'd done to her, must've broken all her ribs with that bat, he was surprised she could even move. She was certainly a fighter! But on second thought, she really wasn't getting very far. Trying to crawl on only one arm, the right one swinging uselessly by her side. Stopping every two feet to clutch her stomach. Moaning. Pulling the rag out of her mouth. Muttering some guy's name.

"_Elliot…"_

He couldn't explain it, but hearing this name had infuriated him. Even though he knew, obviously, that she could not have possibly enjoyed what she'd endured, somehow, the audacity to utter another man's name, after all he'd done to claim her, make her his own. It filled him with rage. And the fact that she could still move at all, when _he_ used to pass out for hours after his father… he was livid.

Even now, hours later, the memory still made him quake with fury.

_I hope she's not dead yet. I hope she's still suffering. With that goddamn piece of wood inside her. Serves her right._

So he'd approached her from behind the tree. She was totally naked, except for her bra, which, in their excitement and haste to do her, they'd ironically forgotten to rip off. She was crying, bleeding between her legs, trying to crawl. But she was so disoriented, she was going in the wrong direction. And anyway, in her semi-ambulatory state, it was like watching a butterfly with clipped wings struggling to fly away. Futile.

She'd sensed his presence. Put her weight on her left arm to push herself into a kneeling position. So she could look up at him. Find out what was going to happen. She'd cowered. Fear in her eyes. That had made him happy. He'd silently towered over her for a full minute, feeling tall and powerful. Forcing her to take in the moment with him. Then he'd reached down to his pants, removed his belt. Taking his time, making sure she watched him do it, watching her watch him. There had been that precious moment when she'd realized it still wasn't over. When she'd realized what was about to happen to her.

_Priceless._

With a flick of his foot, he'd kicked her onto her stomach. Her chin had hit the ground. She'd coughed. Sputtered blood. He'd taken a deep breath. And then he'd let her have it.

Even now he recalled that euphoric sense of power and was instantly excited. She'd made him too soft to even do her at that point, but he almost hadn't cared. This had been almost as good. He'd made her pay.

He remembered the first lash. Like the first swig of a long-awaited cold beer. Perfect. He'd never felt so strong in his life. So alive. Electrified.

_That must be how dad used to feel._

Watching the skin vanish in one swift stroke, to be instantaneously replaced by squirting liquid red. A bit of it had even splashed him in the chin. He'd kept going. A second stroke. A third. Soon his arm had developed a life of its own. She'd screamed a bit at first, but by the end was just grateful to be able to suck in a ragged breath in between strokes.

When he had spent himself, he'd grabbed the rag again – now filthy from the dirt on the ground sticking to the sweat and the blood staining it – and shoved it back into her mouth. All the way this time. Against the back of her throat. _Now _she could shut up. He'd pulled out his bandana from his pocket, and pulled it over the rag, tied it behind her head. Next he'd grabbed her arms. Deliberately pressed his thumb over the broken one. A shudder had wracked her entire body as she silently writhed in pain. He'd smiled. Then he pulled out the pieces of wire he always carried on him. The wires that kept him in business as a car thief. Put all his strength into making those knots as tight as possible. One wrist at a time. Then both together. Squeezing the life out of them.

He'd smacked his hands together, finished. Admired his work. Exhausted, he'd stood up and spit on her. Then he'd turned his back, and begun to walk towards the path.

He'd taken only a handful of steps, however, when he'd paused, stopping mid-step. Had one final idea. He'd turned around, gone back. Picked up the piece of wood again, and kicked her onto her back. She'd screamed through her gag, nearly passing out, as the crushed bone came into contact with the hard ground. She lay lopsided on the ground, her left side raised higher than her right, because of her arms behind her. He didn't care. He'd spread her legs, which were now practically limp – he _defied _her to kick him now – and thrust the wood inside her once again. Then he'd grabbed the pants, and roughly manipulated her lower body back into them. So it would stay put. He'd smiled. Between now and the moment she died, that wood would be stuck inside her, acting as a constant reminder. Of him.

Again, he'd gotten up to leave. She was nearly unconscious. _Now _he was done. _Now _he was satisfied. As a final touch, he'd stepped behind her and given her a shove with his foot on her raw, pulpy back, the force of which served to roll her onto her side. So that she lay on her right arm.

And then he'd grabbed her tank top – the one they'd stripped her of right in the beginning – the one that carried that intoxicating scent – and left her there.

Moaning, writhing, panting on her side.

Bleeding.

Behind the tree.

To think about him.

To die.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Dickie was paralyzed. He had never in his lifetime experienced a moment of sheer terror such as he had just now. Certainly, there had been plenty of scary moments this morning, but he now understood what true fear felt like. Fear uncontaminated by other emotions like excitement, or anticipation. This brand of fear was pure, unadulterated, naked.

It had all culminated in this moment. When Olivia had closed her eyes and slumped into his father's arms. The fear penetrated the bones. In one heartbeat, it made blood, organs, tissue, guts, sink to the feet.

Right here, right now, it might all be over. All that effort to save her, all that hope. Making her so upset again. Making her hurt. It might all have been for naught.

And yet he was torn. Because she now looked so peaceful. Finally, there was no more pain. The pain had been so deep, there were moments when he'd thought he could feel it himself. If she woke up, surely the pain would return. Maybe it was better this way.

He kept his gaze on her face, transfixed. What would it mean if she died? He hadn't really realized that she _could _die.

He was the one who'd had the idea to go on this trip.

He was the one who'd assured his dad it would be okay if she came along.

He wanted to cry.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Elliot nearly passed out with her as his brain processed the sudden deadweight in his arms. The only reason he didn't was that his rational side ordered him to stay with it – for his son.

Her head was arched slightly back, laying peacefully in the crook of his elbow. In spite of the bruises and the blood, her soft, sweet beauty still took his breath away.

He looked down at her wistfully. _How in the world did I go all those years without being able to hold you?_

He moved his left hand towards the side of her neck. Pointed two fingers together. His hand shook.

_Please, _he prayed. _God please let there be a pulse. I don't think I can keep it together if she doesn't make it._

Why did he have to ask her to come along? It could have just been him and his son. That was the irony – it _should _have been just him and his son. And Olivia didn't even _like _camping. He'd known this.

But he had been selfish. He had wanted to be with her. So he'd playfully pestered her about it all week. Until she'd acquiesced. To please him.

His fingers made contact with her cold, bruised skin. A thin red line encircled her neck.

_Her necklace is gone._

He chastised himself for his recklessness in even noticing this, because all mental focus was currently required to summon a pulse. A pulse was all that mattered.

_That was the necklace she never takes off. Because her mom gave it to her. Sober. _

He shut out the thought. Refocused. Channeled all of his mental energy into the sensory neurons of the tips of those two fingers of his left hand.

He held his breath.

And there it was: a beat.

His own heart started pounding so loudly in his chest he was worried he would miss the next one. The one that would confirm what his fingers had just told him. He held his breath again, concentrating on interpreting the neural impulses coming solely from those two fingers. Those two little fingertips would pronounce life or death.

He closed his eyes.

Another beat.

Very weak, but it counted.

She was still alive.

x-x-x-x-x-x

Elliot knew it was time to leave. He wanted to canvas the area, check out that campfire. There were footprints. Even from his vantage point several yards away, sitting near the tree, he could see the scene. Three pairs of footprints on the ground, traces of blood imprinted in the earth in several places.

"_Three," _she'd said_. _

He had to assume she'd meant three attackers. It was the only context in which "three" made any sense. And he knew how her mind worked. Even through her pain, she would have wanted to help him solve it. That damn stupid motto Cragen had fed her years ago had always stuck with her: "you can't pick the vic."

Treat every case the same. No matter what, always be solving.

But Elliot would have wanted to have picked the vic. He wouldn't even have been choosy. In fact, he would've had just one criterion: anyone but her.

_There, God. I thought it. I wish it would have been somebody else. I wish some other woman had gone through this in her place. I admit it. I'm a selfish bastard. I'm a bad Christian. Too bad. I mean it. I'll repent later._

He had to swallow a lump. Three guys. _Three. _The number wouldn't sink in. It was too many.

_She was gang-raped._

The conviction swirled in his head, tasted rancid. He didn't know what to do with it. He knew he shouldn't be so surprised – after all, he'd suspected all along there'd been more than one. But somehow, _somehow, _this changed things. It made it all real.

_Who're you kidding? They probably each took a turn. _

He had always admired her for her strength, physical as well as mental. But no matter how much she worked out, no matter how much they all liked to joke that she could outrun Munch, the reality was that she would always be physically weaker.

Three guys. However they got her, however they grabbed her and got her to this spot, she never stood a chance against three of them.

Once again, however, he had to force himself to pull himself away from these thoughts. To focus. Like his son had gotten the job done before, untying her, he too now had to block out the greater horror of the situation.

_You'll never forgive yourself if she dies in your arms because you dawdled just a little too long. Because you were trying to gather evidence. Fuck the evidence. The crime scene isn't going anywhere. _

There was no more time to ponder the crime. To analyze. To feel guilty. The clock was ticking. It was time to get her to a hospital.

_Sweetheart, I'm sorry. But your life is more important than the case._


	7. Strong

There was one good thing about Olivia's unconsciousness, Elliot thought guiltily. And that was that he didn't have to hear those moans of terrible pain. With every breath of pain, a piece of him died.

Because his guilt was consuming him.

His guilt at having convinced her to come on this trip.

His guilt at having run himself so ragged solving other people's cases, he'd been too dead to the world to hear her get up.

His guilt at having possibly heard a scream in a semi-conscious state, but chosen to attribute it to a dream; a convenient excuse to ignore it. God forbid his precious good-night sleep be disturbed.

His guilt that the burden of finding her like that had been left to his son, who would probably never get over it.

And then there was the true reason: He was so in love with her that her pain was his.

He looked down at her face, which rested sideways against his chest. He wanted so badly for _this _to turn out to be the dream; he would gladly have forgone that delicious scene in the interrogation room and experienced this in its place – over and over – if it meant that he could wake up and all of this would have been a dream.

And yet it could have been worse. He looked at his son, again awestruck that his child had actually found her in the first place.

_You'll never be able to repay him for this. We wouldn't have known for hours, and it would've been too late. From now on, he can do no wrong._

And so he kept trying to convince himself: _It could have been worse._ _We were lucky. _

But then it also struck him as wrong, disrespectful, to even remotely associate the term "luck" with their predicament; arrogant, in fact, seeing as how _she _was the one doing the suffering. Moreover, he thought grimly, _finding_ her had merely been the beginning; Elliot's ability to _save_ her had yet to be determined.

And yet he never would have forgiven himself had he been allowed to sleep through the night, never knowing if he _could _have done something.

_No, you _were_ lucky. Damn lucky. Because even if she doesn't make it, at least she won't die alone._

He had been afraid to even think it, but there it was. It was the _alone_ part that had been driving his guilt. Because if she'd been lucid at all throughout any of the grueling hours she'd been lying here, she would have wondered when she was going to be found. And whether she would live long enough to know it.

The prospect of having to lie on the ground suffering indefinitely, waiting to die, but not necessarily able to summon death should the pain become truly unbearable; _this _had been the true cruelty of what they'd done to her when they'd left her here alone: They _hadn't_ killed her. Rather, they'd left her ambiguously suspended between life and death whereby the uncertainty of the outcome was ultimately more painful than the physical agony itself.

He blinked, admonishing himself.

_Stop it, Stabler. This isn't helping. You got here when you got here. Deal with it. _

Now, more than ever, he needed to remain focused on his one accomplishment of the day: so far, he'd managed to keep her alive.

He was impatient to get going. He had somehow decided that he needed to make up the time he'd lost – the time he'd spent dreaming about having sex with her while she lay in this spot, raped and beaten and alone. As well as the time wasted after his son had interrupted that dream.

_If you hadn't questioned Dickie when he came to get you, that would be two extra minutes that we'd have…_

Antsy as he was, however, Olivia was still in no physical condition to be moved. If she was to withstand the upcoming journey, more first-aid would be necessary.

He turned to his son. "We need to get moving. Can you start gathering the stuff you brought? Here's what we need to do: first, let's use the other towel to make a sling for her arm, okay? That splint will be useless if her arm is allowed to flop around. If she wakes up before we get to the hospital, we don't know if she'll understand not to move it. Because when she moves it, it's horribly painful for her and she panics – and I'm worried about her breathing, so I want to keep her as calm as possible."

_And… I don't think I can watch her go through that again… _

He continued, swallowing the thought. "Now, the thing is, I don't want to lie her down again, because she seems to breathe better in a sitting position. And now that she's unconscious, she can't tell us if there's a problem. So we can't take any chances; one of us needs to hold her up while the other fastens the sling."

_Choose the sling, _he thought desperately. _ Please, Dickie, know how to tie a sling. _

"I, umm, I can do the sling," Dickie replied sheepishly. "I know how. We learned that in the Boy Scouts."

_Thank God. Because I don't want to let her go. Even to my own son._

x-x-x-x-x-x

Of course he chose the sling. It was a technical task, like the wrists. He had gotten used to the _sight _of her, and to touching distinct, disparate _parts _of her. And without question he desperately wanted to help in any way his dad saw fit; recognized that he had an important role to play. But prayed that that role be limited in scope to discrete, finite tasks. Tasks that had visible, measurable results. Tasks where the value he could add would be in the form of tangible medical aid. But what his father had _almost _asked him to do – to hold her, to have her in his arms? That was holistic; it would've meant helping her in an ambiguously emotional way. He would have done it, of course, to save her life. But he didn't know if he would've been able to handle it. Because it didn't mean touching a part of her, it meant touching _her. _

Holding her down had been the most upsetting thing he'd ever had to do in his life. Watching her face contort with desperate, horrified helplessness as he exerted raw male power over her, made her bend to his will.

It had only been a few weeks since it'd dawned on him that he'd grown taller than his twin sister. He couldn't recall a period in their lifetime when this had ever been the case. And yet, one day he was talking to her, and he found himself looking down at her. The next realization had hit hard: he was physically _stronger_ too.

Not that he hadn't known at the back of his mind that this day would come – of course he'd known that as a grown man, he would eventually overtake his sister in height and in physical strength. He had just never really pictured it.

Over the next few days, he'd kept stealing surreptitious glances at his twin – the girl who'd been born a few minutes before he, and who, from that moment on, had been the thunder-stealer. The self-identified live-wire, the spunky one. His entire identity had been shaped around that feistiness; it had developed in reference to it, perhaps even in opposition to it. One of them had to be the quiet one, the pensive one, the introvert. And so he'd taken it on – as though she'd drawn heads, so he automatically got tails by default.

It was not like he had ever desired a stronger, more imperious demeanor. Perhaps it was a result of having a twin, but he was socially secure. He didn't need to be a bully. He didn't slam other boys into lockers. And while he might be categorized as somewhat of a geek, people didn't slam _him_ into lockers. Like his twin, he'd always had lots of friends. On the social continuum, he'd always floated somewhere in the middle – well-liked, but not a jock; smart, but not a nerd.

And so, when he'd suddenly woken up one day to discover this height and this random, budding physical power, it had quietly bolstered his confidence, subtly reshaped his identity.

But he'd certainly felt no compulsion to try it out.It had simply been an inner dawning, an understanding that from now on in life, he had an extra tool at his disposal. And, from now on, no matter what she did, he would be the physically stronger twin.

What he hadn't realized was how much it would scare him to be required to use these newfound muscles. He hadn't had a chance to grow into his new body, and this sudden, premature obligation had shaken him to the core.

But beyond having to commit an act for which he was not prepared, it was against _whom _that had made the episode so traumatic. Because Olivia was someone he had never before thought of as physically weak. Perhaps it was because his father had always talked about her in such glowing, proud terms, and because Dickie himself had looked up to her his whole life. She was someone who could send his stomach to his feet with one glance in his direction. Most of all, she represented the one thing the totality of his family experience had taught him to respect and to seek to protect: she was a female.

And yet even during that conjuncture, that sickening roller-coaster of self-hatred he'd experienced as he and his father had forced her to endure what he could only imagine had been, in her disoriented mind, a repeat assault, in the end, the body parts he had had to touch had been limited to her arms. Which was how he ultimately handled it – he had kept on repeating to himself – _you're just touching her arms. It's no big deal. Just her arms. This is as bad as it can get._

And so when it'd been over, when she'd started to gasp for air and his father had ordered him to release her, he'd really thought it couldn't get worse. But _this _– the seemingly innocuous task of having to hold her up – this would have entailed supporting her _entire body_. He could picture how he would've had to touch her waist, her sides, because her beaten back was clearly off-limits. The best leverage might even have been to grasp her by the underarms – in which case his fingertips would have come within inches of her breasts. Perhaps her head would have slumped backwards into his neck, or, depending on the angle, his face. He could imagine how her hair would feel against his cheek. And what if she woke up during this procedure? How would she react to having his fingers crawling all over her skin? Pressing into her flesh? When she'd been so upset just by the inadvertent grazing of the nape of her neck when he'd removed that horrid gag?

Having a whole adult person be completely dependent on him – _on him!_ – for support. For life. It was inconceivable.

Thank God his dad had let him choose the sling.

Presently his father gestured for him to fetch the towel and the other blanket out from the backpack. He hustled; the look in his father's said it all: neither of them knew how far away the next phone was, and if Olivia was to have a chance, they'd have to find her medical attention soon.

Dickie handed his dad the blanket, which he wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. It was an extra-large blanket, and his dad was able to drape it all the way down her back, like a bulky theater curtain. His dad explained that in a moment they'd pull it down from her shoulders to dress her back, but in the meantime, she couldn't afford to lose any more heat.

This, Dickie knew, was a lie. The real reason his father was so hasty to cover her was that the first blanket was covering only her front, and since the sweatpants were still around her ankles, she was now exposed in back. And his father would be fiercely protective of any sense of modesty she might have left. A fact for which he was wholly thankful.

Gently, Dickie grasped her right lower arm in his hands, drawing it forward in front of her body. It was lean and tanned; this part of her had managed to emerge from the attack relatively unscathed. Unlike her upper arm. Unlike the rest of her.

_I guess even they had a limit. Or maybe they just missed a spot._

Bruised or not bruised, he was still petrified that he was hurting her, and that she couldn't tell him so.

His father evidently noticed his hesitation. "It's okay," Elliot said encouragingly. "Keep going. You're doing great. And I don't think she can feel it anyway."

He bent the elbow ninety degrees and expertly brought the towel around and underneath to form the sling. His dad nodded. He brought the ends of the towel up to the back of her neck. Her head was slumped sideways in the cranny of his father's arm, her left cheek nuzzled against his chest. His dad used his left hand to gently nudge her head away, so Dickie could have room to reach behind it. He leaned forward, his chin close to her face, and tied the knot behind her. His fingers lightly brushed her cool skin. It was the same bit of skin he'd had to touch when he'd removed the gag. But this time, she wasn't afraid of him. This time she looked peaceful. And this time, he wasn't afraid of her.

His dad gave her a soft kiss on the cheek, but addressed him. "Thank you. That looks perfect. Now, can you get out all the bandages and gauze? We don't have time to cover everything, but let's at least get the areas that are still bleeding." Elliot paused, glancing at him worriedly. "Are you up to it? Because if you don't want to do it, we can switch positions –"

"No, no, it's okay. I'll do it. Just, umm – just tell me which wounds to focus on."

Dickie now scooted behind her, gauze in hand. His dad pulled the blanket away from her shoulders, exposing only what was necessary. He took in a sharp breath, again taken aback by the sheer savagery of the beating she had been subjected to.

The problem wasn't the blood, it was the meaningbehind it. Not the _what, _but the _why_. All at once he felt a need to understand where these particular wounds fit into the greater assault.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Umm, what do you think… caused this?"

He watched the expression on his father's face as he posed the question. He watched as his father mentally squirmed, debating whether to lie to him. But he knew he would tell him the truth. Because by now the two of them were so inextricably entangled in this crisis it would be a betrayal for his father to be anything less than truthful. The point of no return had been crossed the second Dickie had heard her first plea to let her go, and he'd steadfastly tightened his hold on her.

Several seconds passed, and, sure enough, Elliot finally replied sadly, "I think she was whipped. Probably with a belt-buckle."

"Oh."

Dickie considered this. Tried to think if it was better or worse than what he'd figured. Worse, he decided, because again it smacked of deliberateness; people got whipped when someone was trying to hurt them, not subdue them. This part had not been incidental to a struggle. A whipping was a punishment. It served no grander purpose than to cause a person an obscene amount of pain.

The blanket had now dropped all the way down so that it was curled around her waist such that her bare back was exposed to him. His dad looked over and realized that the bra strap was going to be in the way. Without ceremony and still holding her securely, Elliot reached over her shoulder with his left hand, meeting his right behind her back, and unhooked it.

"Here, let's get that off so you can work…" Elliot muttered, more to himself, his face turning a shade of red. Dickie watched, fascinated, as the bra came away, and collected in his father's hands in front of her, beneath the blanket.

Trying not to miss a beat, Dickie got to work on her back, trying to stem the flow of blood coming from some of the most vicious welts. The gauze was thin, and he had to slither it over large tracts of skinless flesh, the tidal-like flow utterly overpowering the loose matrix of threaded cotton, making it practically disappear in dissolution upon contact.

Elliot, meantime, continued to hold Olivia in his arms, bending her upper body forward over his lap, which offered Dickie more accessible exposure to her back; a well-angled canvas on which to paint.

He could see how careful his father was being with her. His hand softly clutched her temple to his chest, his fingers gently stroked her hair. He could hear his dad whispering in her ear.

"It's gonna be okay, sweetheart. I've got you. You're safe now. I love you…"

He couldn't help but return to what his dad had told him.

_A belt._

A few years ago he'd gotten into a petty fight with his twin sister, and she'd been so mad, she'd managed to whip him across his bare back with a belt she'd picked up off her bed. A short, pink, girly belt with a plastic buckle. Wielded with the muscle power of an eight-year-old girl, and even then, most of the force had been deflected by her lack of coordination and premeditated aim. It hadn't left a mark on his skin. And yet, the intensity of the sting had shocked him, winded him for a full minute. He'd cried out. He'd stopped yelling at her. Taken in several sharp breaths. Bowed his body up and down. Tried to reach his hand behind him to soothe the spot. Even his sister had been in awe of what she'd done; she'd paused, looked contrite. Apologized.

Dickie couldn't even process what it would be like for that sensation to be repeated – more intensely and repeatedly.

Suddenly he had newfound appreciation for Olivia's ability to have survived this far; to have had the presence of mind even for that brief moment to open her eyes, to recognize him, and to ask him to help her. To not find some more dramatic, more attention-grabbing, sympathy-garnering way to relieve her pain than a series of fainthearted moans. In retrospect, those moans seemed a tremendous understatement; they must not even have begun to communicate the misery of what she was actually experiencing.

It was a new perspective, a new respect for the utter hell that had been her existence over the last several hours. A hell that had been fantastic in its breadth, yet not done full justice by its expression via the limited, attenuating scope of a pair of weakened human vocal cords.

_But then what else could she do but lie on the ground and moan?_

This insight stunned him. That there may not _exist _a channel through which a person writhing in pain might properly communicate to others the sheer magnitude of their agony.

_When Lizzie hit me, I also moaned. And mom certainly didn't think my pain was that big a deal…_

It was one of those profound moments when one of life's _eurekas _hit him like a ton of bricks. Like he'd felt days after his best friend Brandon's dad had died – utterly dumbfounded that Mr. Sullivan no longer _existed. _In this case, it was not death that was suddenly so real, but rather the concept of a person being in a perpetual state of misery, with nothing, _nothing_ to relieve them in even a small way, and no one around to understand. To just be in constant, acute, excruciating pain – minute after minute, hour after hour. A continuous, steady onslaught of attack signals to the brain.

When his head hurt, he lay down, and his mom soothed him and gave him a Tylenol. When his ankle hurt, he tried not to walk on it. And if he had to walk, he had the option of not putting a lot of weight on it, and having someone help him. When he was congested at night, he slept in an alternate position. There was usually _s__omething _you could do to mitigate things, to provide a bit of relief.

But Olivia couldn't do anything to help herself, even in a tiny way. She couldn't shift to a more comfortable position, couldn't rub her back to soothe it, couldn't breathe through her mouth. All of those options – options that would have offered her a tiny respite from her suffering, _each and every one of them _had been, with calculated thought, ruthlessly taken from her.

_If you hadn't found her, she would've been lying like that for even more hours. It would've just gone on and on. _

How did people do it? How could they stand it when they were this hurt? How could they not… _succumb?_

_It was just an accident that you found her. Just an accident…_

It didn't make _sense_. That there was this much suffering, and yet people like him went about their business – went about their entire lives – completely oblivious to it.

_Death. Death would've done it. It would've been the only way. That's why in the movies, people just give up. Now I get it. _

He reached for another piece of gauze to address a second, particularly heinous welt on her lower back. Again he involuntarily recalled the awful sting of his sister's belt, trying to force himself not to picture how helpless his father's proud and beautiful partner must have been, how much it must have hurt.

He quietly continued to bandage her back, as one lone thought persisted:

_What was the point of this? Everyone knows men can overpower women. What were these guys trying to prove?_


	8. Strong, Part 2

Elliot silently watched his twelve-year-old son administer first-aid to the woman who had never sought help from anyone in her life. His mind spun with worry.

Not just worry for Olivia, which was raw and biting and overwhelming to the point of near-paralysis. But also for Dickie. A portion of his worry was devoted to praying to God that there were enough competent therapists in the world to ensure this didn't forever scar his son.

And although Olivia's trauma was incomparably deeper – assuming she survived – he deliberately tried to focus on Dickie. Because he couldn't even begin to imagine what the process of recovery would be like for her. Right now, it was all he could do to make sure there was one.

Elliot glanced at Dickie's work and concluded that Olivia's back was in adequate enough shape for transport. Barely, but it would have to do.

There was one more thing to do.

"Dickie, do you know how to check a pulse?"

His son looked up, his eyes panicked. "No…"

"It's pretty easy," Elliot said, with manufactured calm. "I'm going to show you. Since I'm going to need both arms to carry her, you're going to have to check her pulse every few minutes, because I can't keep putting her down to do it myself. Understand?"

"Yeah."

"Now, she needs to have her pulse taken constantly – so we know her heart's still beating. Because if her pulse stops, we'll need to know it as soon as possible, so we can do CPR, which I'm sure you've learned about in school."

_As if the main challenge with CPR is timing. God help us if we have to resort to pumping her chest._

"Yeah," Dickie responded, "it's when you push up and down on someone's chest to get the heart beating again, right?"

"Exactly. Now, the way you check a pulse, is you use these two fingers…" he pointed his index and middle fingers together – "and you feel right…" he slid his fingers along the side of her neck until he found the right spot – "here. Try it on yourself first."

His son brought his two fingers to his own neck. "Yeah – you're right! I feel it!"

"Good. Now try on her. Apply just enough pressure to feel the beats, but be careful, because I'm not sure what kind of damage was done to her neck. And make sure you know the right spot. The last thing we need is a false alarm."

"Okay…" Dickie redirected the same two fingers to Olivia's neck, the opposite side of which was still slumped against Elliot's chest. "I feel it."

"Are you sure? Do you feel how it's a bit weaker than yours?"

"Yeah." But he looked somewhat unsure.

Elliot had an idea. "Hey, you know what? Do you happen to still have that pen in your backpack?"

"I think so. Why?"

"I'm going to put a mark on her neck, so you know the exact spot. This way, you won't have to feel around each time."

"Okay."

As Dickie handed him the pen, Elliot brought his free hand to his son's shoulder, grasping it firmly to get his attention anew. He looked the boy straight in the eye. "Listen to me," he said with gentle sternness. "This is a life-or-death situation. If you're not sure if you feel a beat, you have to tell me. I'd rather you tell me you don't feel it, and I have to stop and put her down, than that you do, just because you don't want to alarm me or something. Okay?"

"Okay, Dad. I promise."

"Good. Now, let me…" Using his left hand, he clumsily brought the pen to Olivia's neck. He found the spot. And drew a defacing X on her skin.

He shook his head. _I can't believe I just wrote on her. I still can't believe any of this is actually happening. _

He blinked back a tear just as a choke made its way up his windpipe. He swallowed it forcefully. "Okay, there we go. Now, let's get out of here."

"Dad?" said a small voice.

"Yeah?"

"Do you… do you really think that could happen?"

"What?"

"Her heart stopping?"

Elliot considered how to answer. He didn't want to unnecessarily alarm his child, but he was also too mentally drained to lie. "Well, I certainly hope it doesn't. I mean, I – I don't think – she doesn't seem, I mean she's probably… Dickie, I honestly don't know."

"Because Brandon said most of the time CPR doesn't end up saving the person."

x-x-x-x-x-x

Finally, she was ready to be lifted.

With his right inner arm still the resting place for her neck, he carefully maneuvered himself to a kneeling position at her left side, his knees pointed at her waist. He then slid his right hand further behind her, hooking his fingers onto her right side.

He grasped her limp left arm and slung it around his neck, even though her unconsciousness meant it would do nothing to help balance the load in his arms. Even so, he liked the feeling of having her arm around him. It gave him the illusion that she was hugging him. It made him feel closer to her.

His right arm was now in position, firmly gripping her upper body. His left hand was, in turn, now left with the easier task of sliding itself beneath her knees.

And then he caught a glimpse of the sweatpants, crumpled at her ankles. He grimaced, remembering the towel that was crudely shoved between her legs. Before he lifted her, he needed to recheck it. And then he needed to get rid of the sweatpants. Even covered by the blanket, he could not allow those pants to remain obscenely dangling around her ankles. No matter what, he had to do his utmost to preserve her dignity.

He turned to Dickie. "Why don't you roll the sleeping bag back up, and stuff it in the bag since it looks like we won't need it after all."

"Okay."

The second his son turned his back, Elliot thrust his hand under the blanket, feeling his way between her legs. He had to be sure the towel was still in place. Of all her injuries, he worried that the blood loss in this area had the most potential to be the weak link in her body's ability to hold out. All the other first-aid was useless if she bled to death from this.

_Thank God she's not awake for this. There's no way to do this gently. _

His hand found the towel. It felt damp, but not soaked. This was reassuring. He pushed it firmly against her, trying to wedge it as securely as possible between her legs. He did his best with the brief window of time afforded him by the task of distraction he had assigned to Dickie. Under no circumstances could his son see this.

He moved his left hand back towards her knees, where he slid it beneath them, finding a perfect grip and hooking his fingers onto her. This forced her legs closed, further securing the towel in place. Then he jutted his free foot outwards and kicked the sweatpants completely off her.

He reassumed his position at her side, where he placed his hands back in position. Using his own knees for physical leverage, he slowly propelled himself upwards, like a forklift, her limp, blanket-enrobed body now safely in his arms.

Even as deadweight, she was not heavy.

x-x-x-x-x-x

In utter silence, they walked down the path, away from their campsite, their remaining equipment and clothing abandoned and forgotten. Neither knew how long it would take, nor the outcome. Every few minutes, he instructed his son to check the cell phones for service, and every few minutes the answer came back the same: no bars.

Every few minutes his father asked him to feel her neck, and every few minutes they both held their breaths, praying that the fates would keep giving them one more chance – that the outcome of this exercise would not be like his children's video games, where a callously abrupt message would announce "game over," just when they thought they'd come close to earning an extra life.

x-x-x-x-x-x

The surrealism of the situation was still hitting him, even though he'd had an hour to get used to it. But something about hiking down the eerily deserted dirt trail with his son by his side, and carrying his beautiful partner, best friend, lover, soul mate, unconscious in his arms… if this were a movie, he might even think it was a bad one.

And yet here he was, very much in real life. If someone were watching this scene, he might appear heroic, gallant, as he tried to carry the injured woman to safety. He felt anything but.

"_How many kids do you want?" he'd asked._

"_I don't know… Why do you assume I want any?"_

"_Because I always thought – you used to say when you met the right guy… I guess I just figured..."_

"_Sometimes people change their minds."_

"_But have you? Would you not want to have kids with me?"_

"_Elliot, you already have four. Do you really want to support more?"_

"_But that wasn't the question," he'd retorted stubbornly. "I asked you how many _you _wanted…You. It doesn't have to do with me."_

"_Of course it has to do with you."_

"_Are you saying you wouldn't want to have my children?"_

_Her eyes had widened in shock, hurt. "No!"_

"_So what are you saying? Because I already have kids, and you figure I wouldn't want anymore, so now you don't want any? Are you afraid to let yourself want them in case I don't? Or are you afraid to tell me because it might scare me off?"_

_She'd sighed. "El, I'm tired. It's been a long day. Let's talk more about this in the morning."_

And now it was morning, and they clearly weren't talking about it. He replayed the conversation over and over again in his head, particularly the part where he'd tried to tell her he would have as many more kids as she wanted. The pragmatism of being able to support them did not figure into his _desire _to have children with her. The only circumstance under which he did not want more children was if she didn't want any either.

He'd wanted to make sure she understood this. But he'd let her get away with ending the conversation prematurely.

That his situation as the father of four had even figured at all into her calculation had meant she wasn't fully secure in their relationship. Which was entirely his fault: he'd been too chicken to come right out and tell her how in love he was with her. That he was, completely and unconditionally, hers. It wasn't that he'd thought she was wholly unaware of this; rather, it was that he would have liked to have been more explicit. So that she could _feel _it. To have no doubts whatsoever. No insecurities about him, about his feelings.

He couldn't begin to conceive that he might never get to tell her.

x-x-x-x-x-x

They'd been walking for nearly an hour, and the trail just went on and on. Though he'd been macho in his head as to his ability to carry her, even he would have expected to be tired by now. This was not, after all, like carrying a child.

He permitted himself one moment of silent glee.

_Who knew all that extra weight-lifting would prove useful for anything more than sex-appeal?_

The silence of the forest was starting to irk him. He needed something to happen. "Dickie, how're we doing? Still no phone service, huh?"

"Nope."

"Dammit, I wish we had that map of the area. I guess it's at the campsite, huh?"

"Yeah… I should've thought to grab it when I was back there."

"Nah… I'm glad you didn't waste the time looking for it – I don't even remember if we took it with us in the first place. And there was only one possible path to take anyway. The only difference it would have made is I'd _know _where the next clearing is. But it's not like knowing would change anything." He paused. "Hey – you wanna check her pulse again?"

"Sure."

As had become routine, he slowed but didn't stop. Dickie pointed his two fingers at the marked spot on her neck, and pressed. They kept walking, his son concentrating on the sensation in his fingers. Elliot's heart raced. Then Dickie made eye contact, nodded. Elliot exhaled.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Who do you think did this?"

This time Elliot didn't bother considering the ramifications of answering truthfully. He was beyond agonizing over how to shield his child. His son was an equal in this, an adult, and if he expected him to care for her in intimate, sometimes shocking ways, he deserved to know the truth. Without hesitation, he replied plainly, "Dickie, I have no idea. I doubt it was anyone she knew."

"No, I mean, I know that. But I guess I mean, who _would _do this? Like, _why_?"

"Whoever did this is the scum of the earth. _Why _they do it – what possesses someone to do something like this? They hate women, they hate the world, somebody did it to them – who knows. I've heard every excuse in the book. If I could get inside their minds and understand it I would – "

As he was about to fully launch into his routine diatribe about the losers of the planet, to a person he normally wouldn't consider a suitable audience for this pontification, he was interrupted by a sound he hadn't heard for a small while.

"Unnhh…"

And now there was stirring against his chest.

"Olivia!"

He didn't want to stop walking, but had to slow as he looked downwards into his arms, where, like a miracle, she was actually coming to.

"El… liot?"

Her breathing was noticeably labored.

"Honey, it's me. It's okay. I've got you. Everything's gonna be okay."

"I… I… unh…. "

"It's okay, sweetheart. Don't try to talk. Just try to stay awake, okay? We're gonna get you to a hospital. Okay? Just try to stay awake."

"It… it… hurts…"

_She's more lucid now. She knows it's you carrying her. _

He had to thank God for small favors. She'd been through enough hell; the least he could do for her was bring her peace she was not being carried by a stranger. 

"What hurts, honey? Can you be more specific?"

"My… unnhh… "

She clenched her eyes, trying to articulate it to him. He kept walking, his feet moving on autopilot, as he tried to coax her to tell him. He was so wrapped up in watching her, in trying to help her express herself, that he almost bumped right into his son, who'd gotten a few paces ahead as the path had narrowed, and had stopped without warning.

"Dickie, what the – "

Elliot looked up and observed the issue: The trail had abruptly come to an end.

And what lay ahead was no clearing, no rest area for hikers.

It was a two-lane highway.


	9. Ashamed

It was a country road; well-paved, with an orange broken line that separated the two directions. On the opposite side lay dense forest, which a tiny stream bisected. Somewhere beyond, Elliot could hear a waterfall. It was definitely not the road on which they'd driven up; somehow they'd ended up on a different side of the mountain.

The road looked like it had been recently repaved, which boded well, but also made it harder to tell how well-traveled it was, as there were few tire marks. Even so, it was now about 8:30, which Elliot prayed meant some kind of morning commute. All he needed was one car. _One car _to stop and take them in, drive them to a hospital.

But all he could focus on, at the moment, was that she was awake. Awake, and showing signs of awareness.

Aware, perhaps, but also in tremendous pain. She was writhing softly in his arms, whimpering audibly. With the number of injuries she had sustained it was to be expected, but she seemed to be suffering specifically and acutely, in a different way from before.

"Olivia," he said, pausing in his tracks, his face awkwardly jutting towards hers, "I need you to tell me what's hurting. Would it be better if you were lying down?"

She let out an extremely labored breath. "I… unhh…." She scrunched her eyes tighter, and the blood rushed to her face.

_She can't take anymore, _he realized. Even like this, being held limp in his arms, her ribs were being forced to clench painfully and it was putting too much strain on her. They had to stop. In any case there was a better chance a car would happen by than a pay phone would magically present itself.

"Okay, we're gonna stop now," he told her. He wondered how much of what he said was actually registering.

She responded with a barely-audible moan, her features tightening. It was enough to convince him that she was, in fact, lucid enough to understand him, but in such excruciating pain that she was unable to.

And yet the insight did nothing for him, for all he could do was talk to her like she were a scared and confused child. "There's a road here, see? And we're gonna wait for a car to come take us to the hospital, okay? I think you'll be more comfortable if I put you down –"

"No!" she gasped suddenly, "Please… El-Elliot, please… d-don't…" She gurgled, and he had to strain to understand what she was trying to tell him. "D-don't leave me…"

If the situation weren't so tragic, he might have laughed at her misunderstanding.

_How could you possibly think I would put you down and just leave you here?_

"Honey, I'm not gonna leave you. I'm going to sit with you, okay? I'm going to keep holding you, just like I am now. All I meant is we're going to stop walking. That's all I meant. I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

"They… kp…back…" Her voice faded away.

He wanted to find out what she was trying to tell him, but was distracted by the maneuvering required to lower himself to the ground.

He turned to Dickie, who stood idly by, awaiting instruction. "All right. I think we're going to sit by that tree and wait for a car to come." He gestured with his neck. "Looks like we'll use that sleeping bag after all. Would you do me a favor and take it out and unzip it and lay it by that tree?"

"Okay," Dickie responded uncertainly.

As his son laid out the sleeping bag, Elliot studied Olivia's face, trying to assess her condition. Her eyes were still closed, but he could tell she was conscious. The expression on her face suggested the pain had either receded, or that she was losing the battle to tolerate it, that it was beginning to consume her so fully she no longer had the capacity to vocally express it. Based on the way her mouth hung slightly ajar and the shallow, ragged breaths she was taking, he had a sickening feeling he knew the answer. And so he needed to get them resituated on the ground as soon as possible, so that he could tend to her. Every second that he didn't was one more second of acute suffering. She'd suffered enough.

"Olivia, we're gonna sit down now, okay, and we're gonna figure out what's hurting. I'm going to keep holding you, I promise. Okay, here we go. Are you ready? I'm going to try not to change how I hold you, but you tell me if something hurts, okay? Please tell me. Dickie – c'mere – you might have to help me keep my balance."

Dickie cautiously approached, pivoting uncertainly on his feet. He got behind Elliot, and spotted him as he descended in front of the tree. Slowly, Elliot lowered himself into a sitting position on the sleeping bag, which was sprawled in front of the tree, open like a picnic blanket.

With Olivia still cradled sideways in his arms, he leaned back against the tree, and closed his eyes for a second. It felt good to rest. "Thanks, Dickie. Here – come sit down with us."

"Okay," Dickie mumbled, his eyes troubled.

"Mmmph…Unh…" she gasped suddenly, jerking her neck slightly to the right.

Elliot looked down at her worriedly. "Olivia, tell me. Tell me what's hurting."

"Unh… " She clenched her eyes, whimpering.

He wanted to help her so badly. He had never felt so helpless. "What hurts?" he prodded gently, "Please, try to tell me, sweetheart."

"I… unh..." She swallowed and then gasped softly. "_Elliot_…" She seemed on the verge of tears, struggling to articulate herself against a tidal wave of pain.

_This is torture. She's in total hell and you don't know how to help her. _

"Is it your arm?" he asked hopefully.

_That's it, _he coached himself. _ Just go through the different things. She can answer yes or no._

Which assumed she was _able_ to answer. Instead, she reclenched her eyes, moving her head about, almost thrashing. She now seemed to be in more pain than ever.

_Something changed between when you were carrying her and now. Don't panic, Stabler. It must just be that something shifted slightly and is pressing in a painful way._

"Do you want me to sit you up more?"

He had her lying in his lap sideways, supporting her back in the cradle of his right arm, careful not to apply any direct pressure.

Instead of answering, she started to move her left hand, which had been laying idly in his lap. The hand began to travel slowly, painstakingly, across her body, beneath her sling, towards her other side. He watched, trying to see where it would stop, see if he could help her.

She was panting now. "Please," she gasped.

He had to do something.

"Is it a rib?" he asked desperately. "Is something broken on your side?"

"Unnh…" She sucked in several wheezy breaths in rapid succession.

_At this rate she'll be delirious again in no time. We were doing so well…_

She began to tremble. Beads of perspiration were forming on her forehead. She was clearly writhing in pain.

Elliot stole a pleading glance in his son's direction, who looked on, mesmerized by this transformation. He would take any help he could get, even if it came from a twelve year-old.

_Can _you_ figure out what's hurting her? _

But his son shrugged helplessly, looking on in utter alarm.

The blanket had slipped away so that her upper chest was exposed, once again revealing a cleavage marred by welts and bruises. Elliot's first instinct was to cover her up, because Dickie was sitting right there, but this was promptly rebuffed by the louder voice in his head telling him nothing was more important right now than easing her pain. And the truth was that Dickie had already seen this.

Her trembling hand finally made it to her right side, where she seemed to be reaching beneath the sling, to a patch of skin just beyond her right breast, near her armpit. She gasped, her hand not quite making it.

Elliot immediately moved his own left hand towards the spot to which she seemed to be traveling. He tentatively touched the clammy skin with two fingertips, careful not to press. "Here? Is this what's hurting?"

"Unnh… mmphh… close…" she gurgled.

"I'm close? Just tell me which way, okay?"

_Be patient. You've got it. Must be a broken rib. It's all right, it's just one thing. She's okay. Don't panic._

"No… more in… please, Elliot!"

The urgency and clarity of her voice startled him, renewing his conviction of how badly she was suffering and that she was potentially growing too weak to fully express it.

_No matter what, try to get her to keep telling you. You can't let her suffer if there's even a chance you can do something to help her._

He retracted his hand slightly, so that his fingers were now touching a rib directly adjacent to the beginning of the swelling of her right breast.

She inhaled sharply. "There."

"Here? Is this the spot? Are you sure?"

"Yes. Press."

This made him nervous, but it seemed to be what she wanted.

"You want me to press down? Are you sure?"

The desperation in her voice was unmistakable. "Press… _please_…"

He started to press his fingers into the hard bone, terrified that he'd misunderstood, bracing himself for a scream. Instead, her expression instantly softened, and she seemed at peace.

"Ahh… " It was the universal gasp of relief.

He sensed this was the wrong thing to do medically, but he didn't care. Quite plainly, he couldn't allow her to go on as she had.

"Olivia, I have the right spot? It feels better?"

Her huffing and puffing began to taper. "Yes… thank… you…"

He didn't know what to do with a thank-you. This was not a favor. She was not indebted to him. "Okay," he said soothingly.

He could feel the subtle movement of her chest heaving up and down. She was breathing well. She was awake. The pain had receded. And so things were good.

A minute or two had passed when she suddenly mumbled, "Dickie's… here…" It was a statement, not a question.

_Wow, what a difference. She's totally focused on something else now._

"Yeah, he's right here. Do you remember? We went on a camping trip just the three of us?"

_Keep her talking…You don't know how long this'll last. Just keep her talking…_

"Is… he okay?"

Elliot panicked. _What's she talking about?_

"Yeah, he's fine, honey. He's okay. Don't worry about him…"

"He… was there…"

His heart skipped a beat.

_She doesn't mean he witnessed anything, does she?_

His son looked at him, anxiety in his eyes. Elliot could see that Dickie didn't like that she was focusing on him, talking about him. Because it meant he may have to talk to her. But this was one time he understood if Dickie didn't want to talk. He'd been through enough.

"Honey, what do you mean?"

"Dickie… c-came…h-he came… to me…"

Elliot sighed in relief.

_No, thank God, it's not what she means… And anyway, he told you he wasn't there when it happened. Jesus, Stabler, get a grip. She's been attacked. She's not completely in her right mind._

"Yeah, he found you… It's true… But it's okay, don't worry about him. He came and found me. It's okay."

"I'm… sor… sorry… Elliot…that he… that he… s-saw…" she paused to swallow, "saw me like that."

Tears instantly welled in his eyes. He hadn't been expecting quite this much lucidity from her. But it was just like her. To focus on _all _the victims. Especially the children.

Dickie fidgeted on the sleeping bag, picked at something on his fingernail.

_I wish she wasn't hung up on this. It's making Dickie uncomfortable. And you feel guiltier._

He tried to change the subject. "Olivia, how are you feeling right now? Are you comfortable like this? Are you in any pain?"

Dickie made eye contact with him. _Thank you, _his eyes said,_ I want to pretend I didn't see her like that._

Elliot nodded back his understanding to his innocent, traumatized son. _Yeah, I want to pretend you didn't see her like that either. _

"My arm…" she said softly.

"Is your arm still hurting you?"

"They broke it."

_Well, now we know for sure there was more than one guy,_ he thought grimly.

"Yeah, I know, it's broken. But we set it for you. It's in a sling. Is it still hurting you?"

"Keep… back…" she mumbled.

_It looks like she's still out of it, _he concluded. _At least she's not in pain. Just tired, babbling nonsense. Well, let her do that. If she wants to discuss the Cuban missile crisis, let her. As long as she's not in pain._

He played along. "What? Keep what back?"

"Don't… leave me… _p-please._"

He sighed. _We're back to this again?_

"I'm not, honey. I'm right here. Don't wo – "

"B'cause… " she rasped, "they keep coming back."

He froze.

_Oh Jesus. Is she thinking about Dickie holding her down? Is that why she's afraid of being left alone? Does she think she was attacked twice?_

He desperately wanted to change the subject, but precisely for this reason felt the perverse need to pursue it. To get it all out – get her to tell him she remembered the removal of the wood, and the way they'd mercilessly restrained her, as a second attack – and let him face it, head on. It might be cleansing.

"Olivia, what do you mean? What are you talking about? Who keeps coming back?"

She tensed her facial and neck muscles, moving her head slightly – an indication that she was mustering energy to talk. "Came… back. Twice…"

_If she wants to talk about it anyway, I wish she'd at least focus on the real attack, so I could get some details… I might as well know as much as I can. Just in case… _

"Elliot?" Her tone suggested she'd now shifted gears.

"Sweetheart, I'm right here, I'm right here. Does something hurt?"

He had the sudden impulse to lean down and kiss her cheek, to kiss all the pain, all the hurt away. But he resisted. Rape victims were notoriously unpredictable when it came to the kind of contact they would tolerate, even from loved ones. And he was not naïve enough to think that his partner, an expert herself in knowing how to treat such victims, would be any exception. No. He would not take the chance of upsetting her. The rules of the game had changed. From now on, spontaneous acts of affection were out of the question. Her permission would be needed at all times. He was just grateful she trusted him to hold her.

x-x-x-x-x-x

She was tired. She wanted to sleep again. The pain had wiped her out. She hadn't known what to do. It had been hurting since she'd woken up, but when he'd sat down, it had changed, and she'd suddenly thought the pain was going to kill her. But she also hadn't wanted to alarm him, and so she'd tried to downplay it. Within a minute, however, she hadn't been able to stand it anymore, and she'd abandoned all pride to get him to help her. When he'd pressed down, the gush of relief had been instantaneous; it was how she imagined a hit of morphine might feel.

She knew she had to tell him about the piece of wood. She didn't want to. She was profoundly ashamed. But there was no choice; he needed to know.

Interestingly, it didn't really hurt anymore. Was she bleeding so badly she was beyond pain?

_Maybe it's a good thing… Maybe it won't hurt, if you die this way. It won't be as scary if he's holding you… _

She let herself fade.

Abruptly she started, a bleak, innate awareness taking hold in her mind.

_You can't do this to him. Wait till it's really bad again, then reconsider. For now, you have to stay awake. You have to stay alive. _

"Elliot?" she posed again, even though he'd already responded to her.

"I'm here, honey," he said softly. "Tell me what's wrong, it's okay."

"There's… " How to phrase it? _There's a piece of wood jammed inside me?_

She reconsidered. She didn't want him to stop holding her. She didn't want to be exposed again. She didn't want his son to see.

She felt tears rush to her eyes. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't pull it out herself, but she couldn't bring herself to tell him out loud.

He sensed that she wanted to tell him something privately. He cocked his head towards her, leaned it down so that his ear was at her lips.

"It's okay," he whispered, "you can tell me. It's just me, sweetheart. You can tell me anything."

She hesitated.

Again, he tried to reassure her, whispering directly into her ear, "Dickie can't hear. It's okay. I want to help you."

Her voice quivered as she finally told him. "I… h-he left… umm, he used… h-he-… there was a piece… a piece of wood… h-he… " She paused to swallow back a sob. "He-he used it to… h-he… "

His fingers subtly tightened around her, and she knew she had to provide more details, that she hadn't been clear enough. In her head, she steeled herself for what lay ahead: she would be laid down on the ground on her sore, pulpy back, and he would pull away the blanket and expose her lower body and spread it out.

And then he would _see. _

_Please, Elliot, when you see it, just pull it out and pretend you don't know what this means they did to me. Please…_

"Yeah, I uhh, I know," he said sheepishly.

She was disconcerted by her own confusion. _He already __knows? How?_

"Y-you… saw it?" she asked warily.

"You were bleeding," he said softly. "But I got it out of you. It's gone. It's completely out of you now, okay? There's a towel there now."

"Oh." She was instantly tired, beyond upset, hurt, pain.

_So he's already been… So he's already seen… So he knows… _

He evidently sensed her discomfort. "Sweetheart, it's okay," he whispered, into her ear, "We – I – I got it out of you."

_How did you have the gall to tell all those women not to feel ashamed? As if you only have a right to feel shame if you've done something to deserve it. _

All at once she needed to explain how it got there. "I didn't mean to – "

"What?"

"I… wanted to fight back, but – "

He pounced on the comment. "Olivia, there were three of them and only one of you."

_He knows there were three? How?_

"There's no way you could have fought back."

_I know, I know, that's the point…_

"No!" she stammered. It was becoming harder to breathe. "I – I knew… that… I wanted… to, but…"

"Honey, this isn't your fault. These guys were animals."

_Please don't tell me that… You don't understand. Just let me finish… _

"Elliot… I kicked him in the… But I didn't _mean_ to… That's why he… that's why… the wood…"

She stopped talking. She couldn't take anymore. She was beyond pain. But not beyond shame.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He thought he understood. She'd known fighting back would be futile. So she'd tried to go against her instincts, to _not_ do what she was trained to do – fight. But somehow, some kind of instinct, some reflex had kicked in, and she'd done it anyway.

_Sounds like she kicked one of them, maybe right in the balls. Sounds like he used the wood on her in retaliation. That would make sense. _

He closed his eyes, involuntarily picturing it.

_Oh dear God. It must have been absolutely brutal. _

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

They'd been sitting on the sleeping bag for nearly thirty minutes, and still the road had remained eerily vacant. Elliot was beginning to question his decision to passively wait for help. Olivia had managed to remain conscious, but it didn't mean she didn't require medical attention desperately.

_One car. All we need is one fucking car to come along. I don't understand. Aren't there any goddamn people around here? _

He kept thinking about what she'd said. Did it mean she didn't remember what he and Dickie had done? It gave him hope. But just as quickly, he chastised himself, feeling ashamed by his selfishness.

_And so what if she doesn't remember that you removed it? She still may remember the episode as an attack. And how dare you be happy she doesn't remember it was you? This isn't about you. You had no choice, you did what you had to do, and now you have to deal with the possibility that she remembers it as an attack. _

He looked down at her. She still had her eyes closed, but she seemed to be alert. He wasn't sure if he should make her talk. She seemed tired, and he didn't want to exhaust her, but he was keenly aware that things could take a turn for the worse at any time. If she was talking, he'd at least be able to spot the change right away.

He still had his two fingers pressed into her rib. He dared not move them. He felt so thankful, _honored _almost, to be able to do this for her, to relieve her pain in such a direct, palpable way. Even if it meant his thumb was getting weary from being perpetually flexed towards the air.

He leaned his head closer to hers, to make certain she was okay, that she was still breathing. He wanted to talk to her. To just have a conversation. Tell her anything. In case something happened.

"Olivia, I love you."

He felt an unexpected surge of relief from having said the words.

_You said it. Now she knows. If she doesn't make it, she'll at least know –_

"I… I…" she struggled, her breathing laborious. "I... love you too…"

His heart raced. Her voice was still so weak, like a child's. But she'd understood and she'd said it back. It was all he could ask for.

"Can I give you a kiss on the cheek? Would that be okay?"

"Of-of-of… of course."

He'd kissed her on the cheek earlier, when she'd been unconscious, but had immediately felt guilty about it, like he was taking advantage of her. But this time he had her permission. She understood, and she wanted it. It was okay.

He arched his neck forward, his lips making contact with the soft, moist skin. For the most part, this part of her was unblemished by bruises, cuts. Last night he'd probably kissed her a hundred times, but he hadn't appreciated just how precious such a privilege was.

After he kissed her, he kept his lips hovered above her skin for a second. He wanted to nuzzle his forehead against hers, but knew not to push his luck. So he made do with the kiss. Savored it, like it was the last time he would ever feel such a sensation. He had to face the fact that it might be.

x-x-x-x-x-x

His father had told Olivia that he loved her.

Dickie had assumed as much. All the same, he was glad his father had said it, so she knew. He had gotten the sense Olivia was rather clueless about it, though he couldn't fathom why; it was written on his father's face.

Dickie knew that just because his dad was in love with her, it didn't mean his mom was forgotten. It just meant his father was happy. His mom had found somebody else too, after all. And as far as Dickie was concerned, Olivia was an angel on earth.

_And she said it back to him, too._

Which meant, if she made it, she would marry his father. And then she'd always be in his life.

_Now she just has to survive. _

x-x-x-x-x-x

Another half-hour had passed, and Elliot was growing increasingly worried. She'd begun to moan again, though this time it didn't seem like it was due to anything specific. In some ways, that was worse.

His son was also growing antsy, sitting there, bored, not sure what to do with himself.

"Dickie, how're you doing?"

"I, uhh… I'm thirsty…"

He could tell the boy felt ashamed to admit to a personal need. But now that Elliot thought about it, he was thirsty too. They had, after all, been up for nearly four hours, and had already trekked several miles, with nothing to eat or drink. And it certainly wouldn't hurt to give Olivia some water.

He gestured across the road with his neck, toward the tiny stream. "Well go cross the road and take a drink. Do you still have that empty water bottle in your bag? Remember, you didn't want to litter so you kept it?"

"Oh yeah! You're right! I think I have it!"

"Good. But listen – don't you _dare _go out of my sight, okay? You just go across the road, fill up the bottle, and come right back. I know you have nothing to do, but I'm really serious, Dickie."

"Dad, I know… Don't worry."

"Look, drink all the water you want first. Then refill it all the way up. I think we could all use something to drink."

x-x-x-x-x-x

He was at the stream filling the bottle. What he'd told his dad had only been a half-truth. He _was _thirsty, but it wasn't the real reason he'd wanted to get across the road. The real reason was that he needed to be alone. He couldn't watch her anymore, see her like that. He needed a few minutes to collect himself. With his back turned to his dad. So he could cry.

He gulped down a full bottle's worth of water and bent down to refill it, the tears streaming freely down his face. He couldn't return yet. He needed to wait till the red in his face subsided. So his dad wouldn't know.

He crossed the road, looking both ways, even though he realized that the last thing he apparently needed to worry about was getting hit by a car.

Luckily his dad, too engrossed in staring at Olivia with worried, haunted eyes, didn't question why it had taken him so long. "Dickie, great – you got the water," he said. "Come, here, let's give her some."

He approached the two adults, extending the arm with the water towards his dad.

"Hey, you know what – can you give it to her? I don't have a free hand."

Dickie's heart leapt into his throat and he tried to mask his hesitation. "Um, okay." He got on his knees, near Olivia's head. Gently, he lifted the bottle to her lips.

Like a child, she opened her mouth to receive it, and grasped the rim in her mouth. She sucked in a few spartan sips, then released it, shook her head, and rasped, "No more."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Her condition was deteriorating. She was moaning softly, her breathing heavier, more labored and ragged, like her windpipe had constricted. She wasn't as alert. She was also trembling, in spite of the blankets keeping her warm.

Elliot wanted her to drink more, but she didn't seem to be able to tolerate it, though he could tell, by the way she'd thirstily sucked in the first few sips, that she was dehydrated.

It was getting to be as bad as it'd been when he'd first found her, and yet all he could do was hold her. Hold her and try to soothe her. Try to get her to hang on, a few more minutes until a car came. Surely _somebody _drove on this road? Even a ten-mile-an-hour tractor would do at this point.

"El…liot…" she whimpered, sucking in a shallow breath.

He looked down at her, took in her feverish shaking, a new sheen of perspiration forming on her forehead.

_Who're you kidding? This can't go on much longer. She needs medical attention._

"Olivia, I'm right here, I'm right here, sweetheart, I've got you…"

"It hurts," she rasped, her voice desperate.

His heart beat a little faster.

_She wouldn't tell you unless it was really bad. She doesn't like to be a complainer. _

"What does, honey? Try to tell me."

_As if you can really help her. Oh God help us. Please, please send a car soon. _

She coughed, hard. "Ev…everything…"

_Please. I'll never ask for anything ever again. Just please send a car. She's dying._

"I know, baby, I know," he gushed. "We're gonna get you to a hospital, I promise. You just have to hang on a little longer, okay?"

"I… I… c-can't…."

_No no no, don't you dare do this… __Not now, not when we're so close…_

The words came in a rush. "Yes you can, darling. It's just a little while longer. Come on, sweetheart, tell me what I can do to help."

"I want…"

Her voice was fading at an alarming rate, and her face grew paler, like her body had given up fighting to keep the blood flowing.

"What? What do you want? What can I do?"

_Come on, baby, keep talking. Just keep talking to me._

"I want… it to be over…"

"I know, I know, honey. It almost is… The next car that comes, we're gonna take it. It won't be long. We'll get to the hospital, and then they're gonna help you, okay?"

"No… I mean… " Her voice was so weak he had to lean close to hear her. She was getting limper in his arms. She began to shake. "I want…" She paused, drew in three shallow breaths in rapid succession, and clenched her eyes. Her hair had begun to mat against her temples. She let out an anguished cry and finally finished her sentence. "…to die."

x-x-x-x-x-x

When he was five years old, his twin sister Lizzie had fallen off a swing in the backyard. She had landed on the semi-frozen earth with a thump and fallen unconscious. Both of his parents had been present, and while his mother had freaked out, his father had been the one to remain calm; he had promptly taken control of the situation, kneeling down next to Lizzie, feeling for her pulse, and ordering Maureen into the kitchen to call for an ambulance.

Since that day, Dickie had admired his father for his nerves of steel, thinking that nothing could possibly rattle him, and that that was probably what made him good at his job. Indeed, throughout this morning's crisis, it was this calm demeanor of his father's that had allowed Dickie to believe that in spite of how severely she seemed to have been hurt, that everything was ultimately going to be okay.

Until this moment. Until he watched his father dissolve in a pool of panic, begging her to keep hanging on, as if such a thing were really within her power.

He had never heard his father beg.

And for the first time since he had discovered her, what seemed like so many hours ago, Dickie truly believed in his heart that this was the end.

And yet his father refused to acknowledge this, for he kept up the onslaught of words, clutching her tightly in his arms and rocking with her, like the motion might remind her what it felt like to be alive. "Come on, honey. Come on, just stay awake for me, stay awake!"

A certain numbness set in, Dickie's brain going into its own protective shell, denying the reality that he was about to witness a death.

Olivia's death.

_Maybe she won't be able to die. Maybe it's not something you just tell yourself to do. Do you really just close your eyes when you decide it's time and it just happens? Is that how it works?_

"Come on," his father continued to plead, "Come on, I know it hurts, but you have to try. Don't leave me like this… Please, you have to try… I love you so much…"

"I… can't…" she responded limply, his father's spirited words apparently having no effect.

"Yes, you can! You can! A few more minutes… Do it for me…"

"El…liot… I can't… can't…. bre… it's… I'm… sorry…"

She was clearly having a lot of trouble breathing, let alone talking. Dickie had to wonder if it wasn't a little cruel, haranguing her like this, forcing her to vocally defend herself.

He heard a noise in the background, a rumbling. "Dad?"

His father ignored him. All his attention was on her. "I know, I know, honey. But you've come this far. Sweetheart, it's gonna be okay. You don't have to talk. Just breathe… Just a little while longer. I'm gonna be with you the whole time, okay? I won't leave you. We'll do this together."

He didn't want to interrupt, but he felt his dad ought to know.

"Dad!"

"What! Dickie – don't – what's the matter – I'm trying –"

"Dad, there's a car coming."


	10. Desperate

She had not _wanted _to die. She'd wanted to keep living, even if _living, _from now on, meant a slow, agonizing march back from hell. Because he was with her, and she trusted that he would understand what had happened, would be on her side unconditionally, there to help her through it.

But that had been before. When he'd pressed down on her rib and she'd felt a gush of relief and for a brief while the pain had subsided. He'd told her he loved her and had kissed her on the cheek and for a few minutes she'd been able to bask in that and to forget.

Forget about how they ripped the sweatpants off while they beat her. Laughed and called her a whore when they saw there were no panties.

Forget about having the sweaty fat one straddle her neck, and force her to ask him – _beg _him – to have him in her mouth. About being made to repeat the request three times with progressively more emphatic _pleases _because they were having fun claiming she wasn't being polite enough. About how he tasted like rancid pea soup, how she'd gagged when he'd spent himself directly into her throat and he'd slapped her for that, and then made her say thank-you.

Forget about how it felt to be naked and have them inside her. There was the initial shock of such rough penetration, and then the pumping, thrusting. Each one slithering around, infesting her with his filthy seed. Smelling the beer and the cigarettes and the body odor. The fingers squeezing her breasts while the short one played with her fractured right arm like it was Playdough, kneading it in his fingers, as he searched her face for signs he'd found the precise position in which to cause the maximum possible pain. For the first time in her life, wanting her mother.

Forget about the footsteps. When she'd stupidly thought Elliot had heard her calling for him, and that he was finally there and was going to find clothes for her and hold her and help her stop crying and reassure her she still had a soul. When she'd looked up and had seen that instead it was the short one, that he'd come back, and that he was smiling and taking off his belt.

Most of all, she'd even been able to forget, just for a second, about what he'd done with the piece of wood.

And during that brief oasis of time, Elliot's son had given her water, and she'd wanted it badly. The water was delicious, but she'd had trouble getting it down.

She hadn't even cared that she was being fed the bottle like a child. _From _a child. She wouldn't have felt like such a child if Elliot had been the one to give her the water. Because she knew he respected her deeply, that he understood that her current state of helplessness was not reflective of who she was. Moreover, after last night, she felt one with him; having him hold the bottle would have been no different from holding it herself.

But _nothing_ was worth having his fingers leave that spot, even if it meant he couldn't give her the water. Because she had lost all sense of pride anyway. This was but one more in a series of humiliations she'd endured today.

A lot, however, had changed since those precious sips. Then, there had still been some semblance of function to her body. For though Elliot was still holding her, cradling her, soothing her, making her feel safe, doing all the right things, her body was now giving up.

It had started with an ache, a pressure, in her ribcage. She hadn't wanted to worry him, but she would have, if she'd thought there was anything he could do about it. This wasn't like the pain in the one rib near her breast. That had been localized. Excruciating, yes, but ultimately fixable. But this – this was an insidious, growing constriction, closing in around her throat. The culmination of many – _too_ many – broken ribs.

There was also her head. It was throbbing. Like no headache she'd ever experienced. At some point during the assault she'd been struck – hard – on the head, and for much of the time after the attack when she'd been lying alone in the forest, she'd felt dizzy and nauseous. It had subsided when she'd been found. Now the pain had returned, along with the nausea. She'd never in her lifetime felt this sick. It was worse than any hangover, any food poisoning she'd ever had. Like drinking hard tequila and castor oil and soured milk all together on a roller coaster. She wanted to curl up on her knees and crawl into a corner and bow her head and be at ground level and die. And though he was there with her, and she knew he wanted to understand, there was nothing he could do to stop it, and no way for her to explain.

But perhaps if she had the luxury of deep, oxygenated breaths, she might be able to withstand this overwhelming force of sickness. It would still be miserable, but she would do it for him.

But the broken ribs were cutting off her airway. With each breath, she was having to fight, struggle, claw for air a little more than she had for the previous one. There was some kind of liquid down there and she was too weak to cough it up. It was all gurgling inside, drowning her. And all she wanted was for it to be over.

She'd thought she should at least tell him. After all this, she owed it to him to try to make him understand that she'd done her best.

But he was pleading with her to keep hanging on. _Begging _her_._

For a few seconds she'd tried to tell him why she couldn't do it, but now it was too hard to answer him. Systems were shutting down; the few breaths she had left were too precious to expend on words. He would just have to understand.

There was now only a small passage left in her airway. It was like trying to breathe through one's nose while terribly congested. Every breath required gargantuan effort, and yielded paltry results.

_I'm so sorry, darling… I just can't do it anymore… I hope you can forgive me…_

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He was frantic. Panicked beyond all rational thought. Out of his mind, beyond reason, beside himself, hysterical to the point of insanity. Willing to do anything, _anything _to get her to keep going. Willing to give anyone anything. All his money. His possessions, his house, his career. The lives of all the future victims. His soul.

_Begging _her. Pleading with her. Understanding, but not understanding, why this had to be.

And yet a part of him was watching all this from afar, seeing how much she was suffering, and wanting her to be at peace. Realizing how selfish it was for him to force her to hang on, when that meant even one more second in this hell – just so he could have more time with her, assuage his guilt that he'd let this happen to her. He knew it was wrong of him to do this to her, that if he truly loved her, he wouldn't make her feel guilty about leaving him. But he didn't care. If there was even one small chance his pleadings would make any difference, he was willing to spend the rest of his life earning her forgiveness for having forced her to stay with him. And if she died, she would understand and she wouldn't be punished for this transgression. He would. And he was willing to pay that price too.

His son was yelling at him. Something about a car. In the recesses of his mind, an alarm bell was telling him to acknowledge this news, that it was good news. But he couldn't think, couldn't connect how a car coming could possibly make any difference. All that mattered was making her understand she needed to keep breathing.

_You selfish bastard. Just let her die in peace._

x-x-x-x-x-x

The prospect of ceasing to existterrified her. She didn't know what was going to happen when she let go. Would there still be pain? Would it really be as peaceful as most of humankind seemed to believe it was? Would she meet all those others who'd gone before her? The victims? Her mother? Would she be judged?

She was frightened. She wanted him to hold her hand, but was too weak to signal it to him. She wanted to tell him she was scared, but couldn't move her mouth to speak. She wanted him to tell her it was okay to die, that he understood. That he wouldn't blame her.

She wanted to live. But she couldn't take any more.

Suddenly, panic engulfed her as it truly hit her: this was the end.

_It'll be okay, it'll be okay. One day, if what he believes is right, you'll see him again._

She latched onto the thought, let it soothe her, let it assuage her guilt.

And then, armed with the fleeting bit of comfort it provided her, she let the darkness suck her under.

Everything went black. Gentle, blissful microseconds ticked by, and there was no more pain.

But then, her lungs forced her to make the effort, to take in a bit of air; a marginal breath.

And then another.

She couldn't control it. She'd thought she could make a decision. She'd thought there was one last option. That when things became truly unbearable, there was a last resort, a way out. A way to find peace.

But so far today she'd had control over nothing, and this was no exception. The fates were ruthlessly determined to keep her in this hell.

Against her will, she kept breathing.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Something had changed. For just a second, her face had taken on some kind of… aura. And Elliot had known it was the end.

But then, just like that, it had changed back again. And she was still suffering.

Which meant she was still alive.

His mind was clearing, and there was now enough room in it to receive his son's news, to process it.

A car was coming.

_Please, God, it has to stop for us. She gave you another chance, and she's still in hell because of it. You promised her it would only be a few more minutes. You promised her… _

He had to get back in control. She was still in his arms, wheezing, shaking uncontrollably. She sounded like a ninety-year-old woman with emphysema. Her head had lost all motor control and was slumped deeper than ever into his chest. She had even stopped moaning; apparently all her energy was focused on breathing.

He wanted to touch her. To stroke her cheek, her temple, her forehead, to run his fingers through her hair. To hold her hand. To supplement his words with some physical gesture of soothing. But he didn't know what it would mean to stop pushing on that rib. If that rib was somehow pressing on her lung in a funny way…

Elliot glanced up at his son, and was momentarily startled by the sight. Dickie sat frozen in place, a torrent of tears reigning down his cheeks in silence. His twelve year-old son had been about to witness a death.

Elliot found his voice. "Dickie, stand up. Wave at the car. Make sure it stops for us. Don't stand in front of it, but do whatever else you have to do to make sure it stops."

His son stood up. Sniffled, once. Then replied, "I will, dad."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

First-year Trooper Errol Jackson had been inside the station for all of three minutes when the call had come in and he'd had to turn right back around and head out.

On Trail 146, about a mile from Highway 10, a pair of women's sweatpants had been found. Soaked in blood.

Nobody had yet determined what this meant, though it seemed unlikely it was simply a case of a female hiker getting her period all over her pants. And yet they hadn't found a victim, and nobody had been reported missing, either. And the pants had been discovered almost an hour ago, because the hiker who'd found them had had to retrace his steps – four miles back to the clearing to reach a phone.

He turned the bend. As he recalled, the opening to the north trail was close, another half-mile or so. It was a back way; not a lot of people realized it was there, but he'd randomly discovered it one day. The maps all instructed hikers to take a different route. They didn't want campers tumbling out of the forest right onto the highway.

It was turning out to be a gray day; foggy, even. He thought he glimpsed something on the side of the road, up about a hundred yards. A child? He got a little closer and squinted. Indeed, a kid – looked about twelve or thirteen – was flagging him down frantically.

He slowed, stopped the car. He didn't even have time to take off his seatbelt, and the kid was already running up to his car, waving his arms, yelling through it with a flushed, wet face. About ten feet behind the boy, on the grassy encampment by the shoulder, a man was perched against a tree clutching a woman in his arms.

He gestured to the boy with his neck – move away, let me open the door. The kid stepped back.

"Please! Please, you have to help us!"

Jackson stepped out of the car, walked towards the man, who looked up at him with desperate eyes, then promptly returned his gaze to her. Jackson peered at the woman. Her face was beet-red, and she was trembling and sweating. She was wheezing laboriously; taking three full seconds to suck in each breath. A trickle of dried blood traced a line that began at her swollen left eye, and ended at her chin. There were also smears of blood on her forehead, in her hair, on her chest and on her cleavage. Both wrists were bandaged with crimson-stained gauze. She was conscious, but barely – her eyes were closed and her head was crumpled against the man's chest, her chin tucked, as though she couldn't spare a calorie of energy to pull her head up. Her mouth was slightly ajar, but no sound but the wheezing came out.

The man spoke up. "Officer, please! Please – can you take us to the hospital? She's been attacked and – I don't know how much longer she'll – "

Jackson hesitated. "Sir, I should really call an ambul – "

The man didn't let him finish. "No! No, please – please, can you just drive us – she doesn't have much time – "

He considered the request.

_It probably won't make a difference anyway. She doesn't look like she'll last beyond the end of the 911 call._

"Yes, yes of course. You're right. Let's get her in the backseat." He paused. "Do you – do you need me to help you carry her?"

"No!" the man snapped rudely. Then softened, evidently realizing how he must've come across to his would-be rescuer. "No, I'm sorry – no, look, it's okay, I can carry her. Just – maybe you can help me stand up."

"Of course. Here, let me get behind you. You probably don't want to change how you're holding her, so why don't you use your feet to propel yourself directly upwards, and I'll pull you up under your arms, from behind."

"Okay."

As he positioned himself behind the man, he took a breath, gathered himself.

_It's gonna be okay._

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Elliot couldn't believe it. _Finally _something good had happened. A cop – _a cop!_ – had come along! A cop, who would not hesitate to stop for them, who would take them in for sure. Who could call ahead to the hospital on his radio, so they wouldn't have to explain, so they'd be ready for her.

When Dickie had told him a car was coming, he had started to prepare his speech in his head. What to tell a random motorist – how to convince him or her to let them in – to interrupt his or her day for hitchhikers, should the driver be so blind or nervous or selfish as to not find the sight alone of her sufficiently compelling.

It had actually crossed his mind that Olivia's attackers could be driving on this road. He'd even thought about what he'd do if they stopped. He was so desperate to get her help he had actually, incredibly, decided he would accept a lift from them. He had played the scenario out in his head: Assuming they were stupid enough to stop in the first place, they probably _would _drive them to the hospital – because even criminals dumb enough to leave behind the boatload of forensics that they had would have to be truly mentally deficient to stop, show their faces, and then blatantly refuse to take them to the hospital. And they wouldn't drive them somewhere else to kill them. Because these kinds of men were cowards: the crime itself had demonstrated that. They wouldn't be interested in his son, and they wouldn't attack her again, not in Elliot's presence. Especially once he told them he was a member of the NYPD. They'd be quaking in their boots. Desperate to dump them at the hospital, and then get the hell out of Dodge. Hoping their display of Good Samaritanism would fool him. They probably _were_ this stupid.

All of this had gone through Elliot's head in the two seconds following his son's announcement and Olivia's apparent retreat from the precipice of death. Just as quickly he'd realized how ridiculous the notion was. Even in what seemed to be a sparsely populated area – who even knew how far away the closest town was – surely the chances were remote that _they _would be in that car. Surely _nobody_ was this unlucky.

And yet if the fates really turned out to be this cruel, Elliot wasjust desperate enough to take this kind of a chance. Of course, he didn't exactly know who they were. Just that there were three of them.

Truth be told, the way he saw it, the biggest risk of all was that she'd regain enough lucidity to figure out she was being rescued by her own rapists.

But as it turned out, none of this far-fetched scenario, thank God, was in the cards. Instead, God had sent them a policeman.

Elliot had sized him up: a stocky man in his late-twenties, the shock on his face was evident; this was probably the first assault victim of his career. His days probably consisted of speeding tickets and lost tourists and petty thievery. The occasional DUI. A motorcycle accident. The guy would probably be a uniform for life. Content to spend his days driving and handing out tickets and enjoying his coffee and his doughnuts.

The poor guy had clearly only wanted to help, but when he'd asked, innocently, if he may assist in lifting her – by God, Elliot had nearly chopped his head off.

_The next person who gets near her better be a doctor. _

The policeman parked himself behind Elliot as he prepared himself to lift her. The only problem was he'd have to let go of her rib. It crossed his mind to have Dickie replace his fingers, but thought the better of it. It was too awkward, might interfere with the process of getting her into the car expediently. And this random stranger – cop or no cop – wasn't touching her. So he had no choice but to let go. Rely on prayer and luck alone – both of which had been in short supply today – that this rogue rib wouldn't do further damage.

As always, he didn't make a move without telling her first. "Olivia, I'm going to pick you up again, okay? There's a car here for us, and we're going to take you to the hospital. I know it hurts a lot, honey, but you have to hang on – we're so, so close now. I know how hard it is for you, sweetheart, but please – just keep breathing."

There was no flicker of a response. Nothing. She didn't speak, didn't moan, didn't move her head; there was not even the slightest twitch of a muscle to acknowledge his words. Instead, all he heard was the screeching sound of a pair of lungs desperate to provide some bit of oxygen to a broken body.

That was good enough for him.

He began to rise, as he had before, though this time there was support behind him. He could stand up more quickly, not having to worry about keeping his balance. He tried to make sure he kept her upright, that she was at the best possible angle at which to breathe.

His heart was still pounding in his chest, not yet recovered from the flood of adrenaline that had inundated his system when he'd thought he was about to lose her. He cringed at the memory; couldn't believe how close he'd come. How he'd miscalculated, hadn't seen how bad it was getting for her. He'd watched her condition steadily deteriorate over the half-hour, had heard her start to moan, and had known she was in pain again. But he hadn't understood what this had really meant. Because fundamentally, he still couldn't accept that she could, after all this, die. He'd forgotten, really, that it was an option for her. In his gut, at the core, he couldn't comprehend how it was possible to go to bed on top of the world, his only worry that she didn't know _just _how much he loved her, and ten hours later have a funeral to plan. He'd known, intellectually, not to take her consciousness for granted. But he'd viewed such a self-admonishment merely as a _precaution_. It was one of those things the manual said to do, but which nobody actually followed in practice. Like seatbelts in a cab.

He had somehow figured that if she was going to die, it would have happened back at the scene. When she'd first gone limp in his arms. He'd had his requisite heart attack, and had thought he'd paid his dues. That God wouldn't play this kind of trick on him. That if he followed the rules, did everything in his power to keep her alive, _love _her enough, she wouldn't die. And so when she'd made her declaration, he'd suddenly seen that it wasn't about him at all. That it wasn't about following the rules, because there _were _no rules. Just guidelines, with no promises, no guarantees. That this wasn't one of his son's video games – that expertly following the path, knowing all the pitfalls along the way, how to deal with each kind of enemy given limited resources, automatically meant he'd save the princess. There was no algorithm, no computer tabulating his score. There was nothing but a collection of organs and systems in her body that were floating about, struggling to function at limited capacity, and her brain governing them – her broken, oxygen-deprived brain, rotted away by hours of terrible pain, every single second deciding anew whether or not the train wreck inside her was worth salvaging.

And yet here he was, and it seemed he _had _been given another chance. He once again had her in his arms, and she was still alive. But this time he dared not let the little voice, the one that liked to whisper that death only happened to anonymous Manhattanites, declare victory so soon.

Elliot inched towards the car, her head slumped against his chest, her legs dangling on his left side near his waist, her bare feet protruding from beneath the blanket.

Just as he was about to try to maneuver himself inside the vehicle without hurting her, he felt a bit of movement on his chest. He looked down.

It was her left hand. Grasping his fleece.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

She sensed some kind of change. She was being moved again. There were voices. A little more air was getting in.

She was still alive.

And she still felt sick. There was nothing to throw up, and she was too weak to even try, but the motion was making her dizzier. Her eyes were closed, but the world was still spinning, and her head was killing, and she longed to be on her knees, at ground level.

She was disoriented. She didn't understand what was going on. She couldn't figure out how or why she was in the air. She didn't know where she was or who was with her, who was touching her. She didn't know if the attack was over or just beginning. If she was being helped or about to be hurt again. Everything was jumbled.

A voice was saying her name, telling her about a car, telling her to breathe.

The motion needed to stop. She didn't know how to make it happen, though. She wanted to speak, but couldn't. She was getting just enough air to be awake. The dizziness was overwhelming her.

In her mind, she began to panic. She tried to move her right hand, but nothing happened. She didn't know why. She tried her left. It worked. She felt material. She closed her fingers around it.

And then she felt herself descending. There was more pain now, and the dizziness was consuming her. But her airway was slightly clearer. She was no longer suffocating. Moving her hand had done the trick. There was one conclusion to be drawn:

_Don't let go of the shirt._

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Elliot wasn't sure why she was clutching at his fleece, but it gave him hope. It meant she was breathing, getting oxygen, still conscious. But there was still a certain desperation to the way in which she was hanging on to it, as though she were channeling her pain into it.

He didn't know if he should hold her hand instead. If there was some meaning behind her wanting to touch his shirt in particular, or whether it had been an involuntary, random act, that his shirt was substitutable by his hand. And now that his left hand was free, for he'd decided that she was so far gone, putting his fingers back on the rib was probably moot, he could touch her.

He settled for placing his hand on top of hers. But then he realized he couldn't quite envelop her hand completely, as the bandaging on the wrist was thick enough as to prevent this. So he simply covered the top of her hand with his. Stroked her knuckles lightly, innocuously.

_This is good. You'll be able to feel if she stops flexing her muscles. _

He didn't know what he'd do if that happened. Because the next time she lost consciousness, he didn't think he'd get her back.

He shuddered, forced himself to focus on the good: finally, mercifully, she was minutes away from medical attention.

With Dickie crammed in the backseat next to them, the policeman put the squad car in gear.

"Officer, how far away is the closest hospital?"

"About twenty miles. Maybe eighteen. I'll step on it, though."

_Twenty miles?!_

Elliot glanced down at her. Hanging on. Banking on his words.

_You promised her it would only be a few more minutes._

"There's nothing any closer?"

"It's a tiny county. Only a couple hundred people – spread out over thirty miles. Saint Anne's services the entire county and the next one over."

_There's no point in arguing. It is what it is. _

"Will you radio ahead to the hospital to expect us?"

The officer didn't take his eyes off the road, but even from behind, Elliot could tell the guy hadn't considered this.

_Jeez, we're really not in Manhattan anymore, are we Toto?_

"Um, yes. Of course. I guess you folks had cell phones and they didn't work, huh?"

He wasn't in the mood for a casual chat, but he definitely wanted to hear the explanation behind this one.

"As a matter of fact, yes. Is there no service anywhere around here?"

"Wireless carriers won't bother with a tower unless they can guarantee a critical mass of customers. We're too dispersed here. Only way would've been to subsidize it with local tax dollars, and the city council voted it down. Lotta older folks live in these parts, and they barely got use for their regular phones, let alone cells."

In retrospect he didn't know why he'd asked. He'd stopped listening as soon as the guy had uttered the first word. What was the difference anyway? All that mattered was that she was still clutching his shirt. Wheezing and trembling, looking ill, but taking in air.

Alive.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He was driving fast. Going the max his souped-up vehicle could handle. Put on the lights and siren, even though there was no one else around.

_Come on come on come on come on, let's get there already. There's not much time… _

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Tried to think.

He needed to get these people to the hospital. So he could then get to a phone. Call Jake. Tell him the bitch actually survived.


End file.
